The good news: It turns out that my house is really hard to break into.
The bad news: Last night, I was lucky enough to be heading out for a girls’ night out with a group of the incredibly fun women who live in my neighborhood: Burgers at the Abbey, then IN THE HEIGHTS at the Hippodrome. I was excited. So excited that when they knocked on my door, I threw it open, bounded out — and realized that I had just locked my keys inside, something I have not done in eight years of living in this house.
After making several attempts to get into my house — the only thing I didn’t try was going over the roofs or up the fire escape because I knew my office window was locked — I gave up and called a locksmith, then waited at another neighbor’s house while the other women continued to dinner in the neighborhood. A very nice man arrived within 45 minutes, took off the lock and re-keyed it and I was able to make the second portion of the evening. So the title of this piece is a bit of a misnomer: No cheeseburger for me, although my neighbors were thoughtful enough to get me a brownie to go. And I’m really happy I saw IN THEN HEIGHTS because it might help me with a secret project down the road. (Not a novel, not my project, but something I’ve been asked to consider contributing to, and it could happen.)
Everyone knows the Robert Frost line about good fences. But I live in a neighborhood of rowhouses, where we live side-by-side. The only fences we have are behind our houses, surrounding the tiny “yards,” which usually contain no more than garbage bins and air conditioning compressors. During the recent one-two blizzard punch, I was away. I arrived home to find out that my neighbors had shoveled out my walk and steps. They also had rescued a valuable package that UPS had left behind the locked gate on the alley, grabbing it right before the second snowstorm, which might have destroyed the contents.
Now, some people might not know this, but THE REAL HOUSEWIVES franchise on Bravo originally started with some vague semi-sociological ambitions about depicting life in gated communities. No, seriously. And I won’t lie, there are moments — this morning, for example, when I opened my door to grab the paper and saw a young man relieving himself in the vacant lot across the street before getting into a very nice car with his friends and heading out in the morning — when there’s a little too much of what Flaubert called dans le vrai. (An aside: Every Sunday morning, a wave of homeless men walk down my street after eating a free breakfast at a neighborhood church. They are pleasant and courteous and would NEVER do something like this, yet the frat boy element in our neighborhood does it all the time.) (Sorry to use frat boy as stereotype/slur.)
But I don’t know. Don’t fences — and gates — make it easier to be a good neighbor? And I’d happily pay $338 to be reminded that I live in an actual community, where people look out for one another.
The Heights have nothing on my ‘hood.
Memories of your life as a neighbor, please. Preferably happy ones, but crankiness is always acceptable, too.
I grew up in East Baltimore (near what was then called City Hospital). I have such great memories of the summer, in the evening, when everyone would sit on their front porches and just relax and chat. When I was of dating age, they would see my dates pick me up and I’d have to introduce him to everyone.
The next night or so, I would get the comments and reveiw of what they thought of my choice!
They were extended family and looked out for all of the kids.
I fondly remember 2 of the ladies who didn’t have children, taking me shopping with them to Highlandtown, or dinner at Haussners or a movie.
I felt loved by all of these sweet wonderful people who made my childhood so memorable!
The family next door ws very important to me in all sorts of ways when I was growing up. But the family next door in my first novel (who were truly NOT based on the actual neighbors, but the situation and specifics of the two houses were certainly inspired by my childhood environs) so offended these people, though there had always been a really warm thread of connection, weddings attended, etc over the decades since everyone moved form thast neighorhood, that they stopped speaking to me forever. They gave no explanation, but the parting remark ending the phone call I had made to invite them to the publishing party for that first novel, thinking they were dear old family friends — “Never call us again, and we’re not going to read your book!” — was a big clue.
Wow, Katharine. That’s a topic in and of itself — mysterious references to misdeeds. One of my old bosses said something to someone that indicated I had done something awful, yet another of the bosses tried to recruit me later, so I was always mystified. I still have paranoid moments thinking about this. I had one just the other day.
We had a wonderful young couple next door to us for several years. The young man owned the house with his mother, then bought it from her. However, he couldn’t afford to keep it because of the economy. He and his young wife had two little children. She didn’t work outside the home. They are very religious which usually doesn’t work for me, but they weren’t pushy about it. Mostly my suburban neighbors are pretty much stand offish. I’ve lived her for 30 yrs and have never liked it. I can’t get my husband to make a move. I may get out of here myself. I was born and raised in Philly, and people were generally friendly. I haven’t seen that here. I’m told Baltimore is different. However, I sold real estate for years, and people always said the same thing. “We have great neighbors. They’re here if you need them, but they leave you alone.” I heard this over and over. Very odd.
My neighbor across the hall is in her 90s and is probably a little senile. She keeps lecturing me about my dog not being leashed, but Sam’s always leashed, so I think she has me confused with another woman on our floor who doesn’t leash her dog and who is taller, plus thin and blonde. (So basically someone who looks nothing like me at all.)
So anyway, we ended up talking about books one day and she said that thanks to the double blizzards, she hasn’t been able to get to the library, and I said, “Well, I have a lot of books, so if you want to borrow anything, you’re more than welcome.”
Turns out she liked mysteries and then she challenged me to name which mystery authors I liked. (Because if I were a “real reader,” I could do that.)
So I threw out some names, and she scoffed at them.
Know who her favorite mystery author is?
Toni Morrison.
We lived in a hosue on a corner lot. Once a burglar walked into our house and stole our Easter watches my dad had bought for us kids. I have some vague recollection of me having a conversation with the guy, but the memory is way faded. Although we were certain it was this guy, my father continued to cast suspicion on his in-laws, a kind of accuse and misdirect he always used for the in-laws.
I had a neighbor once who was so tired of moving her things from the suburban complex where we lived to a loft downtown that she invited me up to her apartment to take anything I wanted just to save her a trip. I still have the ceramic jar, now about twenty years old.
RE: the secret project that I know nothing about. If it’s in the general area that I think it might be, please stay sane and say no. While it’s so none of my business, I like you too much to see you come to grief…if it is what I think it is.
When I was a little girl, the next door neighbors has a pet skunk (it was desprayed or whatever you call it). That was very exotic at the time (early 60′s). I hadn’t thought about that for a very long time.
When I think of a neighbor who might have shaped my view of the world in some way, though, I think of going up the little hill to Janis’s house. We would go down to the rumpus room in the basement (rumpus!) and sneak looks behind the tiki bar at her father’s hidden stash of Playboy magazines. I was probably seven or eight at the time. We knew that it was against all the rules (for adults only), but we couldn’t believe that women looked like THAT without their clothes on. (If I have nentioned this before, sorry for the repeat. It was very odd and sticks in my brain.)
Finally, there was the creepy guy across the street who lived with his elderly mother. He used to ask all of the neighborhood kids over to look at his bell collection. The bells were lovely, but even at that age, I felt warning alarms going off (there’s some bad pun hiding in there) in my head being around him. I sure hope I was wrong and I sure hope that he didn’t get any little kid alone in the house and do thing he shouldn’t have.
Marjorie,
Trust me. This is unguessable.
I had the best neighbors when I was growing up — they were there to help, or stay out of your business as the situation warranted. They gave us the best halloween candy baskets, they let us run through their yard without complaining, they let us raid their yard for violets and spring beauties for the May Baskets we made each year…
I try to be that neighbor now. It was led to a fabulous friendship with neighbors on one side, and cordial relationships with others. While we’re not as close together as row houses, we’re fairly tightly packed in. When our block was without power for 5 days last year after an ice storm, my good friend neighbors had a generator so we hooked up our fridges and a power strip. We did a lot of cell phone charging and flashlight charging for people who lived on the block. Now they’re names instead of “brick house on the corner” — and the Hellos are a bit warmer. Other than that things haven’t changed a lot.
I’m content to be a good neighbor and let the others pick how it goes. Except for “John” across the street, cuz he crazy!
You need at least one crazy neighbor.
Unfortunately, I’m afraid that we are the eccentrics in our block. We’re trying to pretend this is all part of our creative profile, but the truth is we’re just weird.
We have mostly really fine neighbors. We live within 1/2 mile of a university, though, and some of the houses are full of young folks, who occasionally do frat-boy things (as defined herein); but I’m not gonna be the old guy who says “Get off my lawn!”.
Our whole area has sidewalks, so the young folks have a place to ride their bikes (or drive their power-wheels), and the walkers and joggers all use the space, too. But there IS one guy who has two major-big dogs, and who doesn’t always clean up after them; and when his dogs leave behind a gift, it’s always quite….generous.
But I also won’t be the old guy who scoops up the prize and then flings it upon the yard where he thinks it “belongs”*; easier to dispose properly and forget.
*one could become the Terror of Tower Heights (as opposed to Butcher Hill) but I bet that’s no fun.
Neighbors – good ones as a kid, although a lot of them were students in the dorms on the campuses where my father worked. A neighbor with older kids who really helped me out when I was a new mother. But none of them equal the “unusalness” of my present neighbor. He’s a nice guy but from my bedroom window I can see the yellow ironing board he put up in his front yard. Everytime the wind blows I hear the siding, which has broken away from the original stucco, banging against his walls. His entryway into the house, a little area with side walls under a curving top, is filled with yellowing and crumbling cardboard boxes whose contents are poking out between the boxes (looks like material of some kind). In front his lawn has gone to seed completely and the bushes grow so far out over the sidewalks that neighbors trim them back. Then there are the black garbage bags that are wrapped around parts of his roof (protuberances – maybe the little noches that are on the top of stucco houses trying to be Spanish). Among the bushes and weeds are several beautiful flowering plants that he bought back from the florist and just plopped down on the yard. They’ve sent their roots down and they are the lushist and most beautiful plants in the neighborhoo. Also from one of my bedroom windows I can see in his bathroom because the sheets he has had as curtains for over 20 years are coming down. I keep the shade on that window closed all the time. From my deck I can see into a room stacked full of furniture and who knows what else, but not stacked in any orderly manner. Some chairs are piled sideways on top of desks and there are other unknown objects. (I always planned to plant a vine on a trellis there but have never gotten around to it.)
Sometimes the neighbors discuss whether or not we should “turn him in” to the city. They have a program, including a social worker, that works with horders and people unable to maintain their houses. None of us have so far.
Wow, Jane. I can understand the dilemma. You clearly don’t want to cause him harm.
Too lazy to do proper html tonight, but if you cut and paste this link, you’ll find another neighbor tribute — and another allusion to the same Robert Frost poem.
http://www.lauralippman.com/april07.html
Baltimore is a tough town for newcomers. I don’t sugarcoat this, although I am hopeful it will change. Baltimoreans aren’t unfriendly, just not in the habit of reaching out to people because they’ve seldom been newcomers. It’s a cliche, but true, to say that when a Baltimorean asks where you went to school, the school in question in high school.
As for Toni Morrison — there are a lot of literary writers whose work could be classified as mystery, but I am frankly stumped by this one.
Jane, you have a very interesting and very difficult problem. Even if you report the man and get him a social worker, it is very hard to get someone with a hoarding roblem to truly recover. On the other hand, is he in danger from a fire hazard and getting trapped in his own home? Then I think you and the other neighbors would feel better that you had tried to get him some help to get his home clean enough to be safe. Thanks for sharing that with us. I don’t what I would do. There is no easy answer.
Actually, I’ve found everyone here to be incredibly friendly. (Except for the woman across the hall.) It kind of weirded me out at first, the way people would just say hi.
Although probably part of it is that the place I spent most of my time (pre-Kindle, anyway) was the Ivy and the women there are very friendly.
I’ve really gotten lazy about doing the html here, but David Corbett, over at Murderati.com, had an excellent piece yesterday about how to reach out to people who are grieving. I found it really valuable.
http://www.murderati.com/blog/2010/3/8/what-to-do.html
I have great neighbors. We live on a cul-de-sac and are on friendly terms with every one, even the ones I don’t know well. I know that if I had an emergency I could go and pound on any one of their doors and they would help. The only one I have a problem with is guy next door who is retired military and a nosey parker.
When my daughter was born, my wife had some pretty severe complications and was in and out of the hospital for a couple weeks. We lived in a cul-de-sac and we’d been there for about two years, but we’d never really gotten to know all of the people that lived there other than waving hello and goodbye. When they found out what was going on, they organized it so that someone brought dinner to our home every night for a couple of weeks. It was such a simple and kind act, but meant a great deal.