November 2010, Thanksgiving Day to be specific, I moved into MY house. ”MY” as in the first house I bought completely on my own, and after surviving an ugly divorce…well who’s divorce isn’t ugly, right? Anyways, this was a big deal for me and one of mixed emotion. Could I handle all the things that go along with home ownership? Like when the faucet leaks, or the drain clogs, or the dishwasher breaks? But I am a resourceful girl, and I’d been longing for my own little bungalow, and it seemed like the perfect time (read: buyer’s market)…so what the hell, I jumped in with both feet (and perhaps with one eye closed).
It’s a lovely little neighborhood, older homes, built back in the 1950′s. Back in the day when hard wood floors and brick fireplaces were the norm. My neighbor to the left, a sweet little hunched back man, Leonard, 94 years old and more on his game than many people I know, half his age. ! Arguably the neighborhoods oldest resident, and I aspire to be as sharp as he in my old age. He rocks! Then there’s Joanne and Nick, Steve and Margaret and Buffy and her adult daughter, Susan (who recently moved home after she moved out of her boyfriends house…damn, seemed like such a good idea at the time…)
I’ve decided this little neighborhood is a case of good news/bad news. The good news is, everyone seems to keep tabs on you…and the bad news is, everyone seems to keep tabs on you! Imagine my surprise when I learned my neighbors were discussing my ability to keep up with my yard! I am the proud owner of a very big back yard, and apparently there was some concern as to if I could keep it all mowed in a timely fashion or not. But alas, I rarely back down from a challenge, especially if I know you doubt my ability. Okay, so I did buy a riding mower…but I rarely back down from a challenge.
And so I have spent my summer being “neighborly” to those who have lived here for 30+ years, because at 49, I am clearly the new kid on the block. My lawn is mowed on a regular basis, my trash and recyclables are dragged out every Thursday night, my driveway is swept, and my flowers are watered, and I have engaged in small talk with every neighbor who has wandered by.
Today while sitting on my back porch enjoying an impromptu sushi dinner with my oldest daughter (who dropped by after work), I see one of my older and more opinionated neighbors approaching from cross lots. I wonder what she could possibly want? I quickly run a mental check list…lawn is mowed, trash cans are in, dog is quiet. It is then that I see an old school canning jar in her hand. “Well I’ve just finished my final batch” she announces. ”What?” we ask.” She responds, ”I’ve been picking them all week, and just finished my last batch of jam.” “Strawberries?” my daughter asks? “No. Raspberries.” Buffy replies. “Even better!” I say.
We strike up a conversation about summer, I compliment her on her beautiful flower garden, she beams and then points out how badly I’ve neglected my tomato plants, I thank her for noticing …and for watering them as well. I attempt to make a joke about them screaming for water, and she tells me ‘their crying keeps me awake at night!’ I think I was just on-upped by somebodies grandmother! She is 80-something and just as sharp as a tack; and I suddenly feel lucky to have gotten to meet these people and to be welcomed into their neighborhood, for it really is ‘their’ neighborhood.
Raspberry jam. Who takes the time to make that anymore? And more importantly…who takes the time to make that, and then brings a jar over to the ‘new girl’ on the block??
Yes, we are a society of high tech; email, I-phones, voice-mails…and yet I feel you should never underestimate the the power of a jar of home made raspberry jam…especially when shared with your neighbor.
Feeling suddenly nostalgic, maybe it’s the heat making me delirious, maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s just the sweet simplicity of an era gone by…
