Caffeinated Politics

It was a pleasant sound that drifted across the warm air. A group of about ten women from a writers’ group had gathered on a neighbor’s back patio to talk about their creative projects and offer each other feedback. (Our neighbor is sending out her first children’s book to publishers.) Their light‑hearted banter and gentle laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses filled with iced tea.

I was transplanting flowers and watering, so I only heard the group in scattered moments when I happened to be near the back of our house. But it was a wonderful sound, and it reminded me again of a feeling that has been steadily growing within me. Now in my mid‑40s, I’m finally experiencing something I’ve long wanted: being part of a neighborhood community.

I grew up in the country, where my neighbors were my grandparents and two sets of aunts and uncles. It was a safe, nurturing environment and a good life for a kid, but there were many times when I desperately wanted more excitement. Watching a long row of bean‑picking machines rumble down our country road just wasn’t enough for me.

When my family traveled to the Rockies on summer vacations, we always took the city bypasses to avoid heavy traffic. I yearned to see the bustle and intensity of city life. Today those bypasses make sense, but as a kid I stared out the back window of the Buick at the tall buildings in the distance, knowing there had to be some excitement out there somewhere.

When I moved to Madison 22 years ago, I found some nice apartments and even made great friends who lived in them. But for the most part, the experience felt limited because I never felt like part of a neighborhood. Big apartment buildings breed isolation—not only within the building itself, but also in how you see your place in the world.

I remember a pollster once asking me during an election season whether I felt more like a member of a neighborhood, the nation, or the world community. At that time, I certainly didn’t feel connected to any neighborhood.

But many of my friends did. They lived in the city’s neighborhoods and seemed to blend in so easily, having grown up in places where the streets were dotted with homes and friends. I envied that sense of belonging and wondered how one made it happen. The answer, I’ve learned, is that time happens—and life moves us, if we’re open to it, in unique ways.

Over the past two years of living in an isthmus neighborhood, I’ve come to truly enjoy and embrace the sounds and faces of daily life. The bikers on the city path, the train whistle with its declaratory blast, the laughter of a neighbor over the hedge, or another calling out, “What did you think about…?” before we dissect the latest news.

There are probably thirty people I now know from the larger neighborhood simply because they rounded our corner and struck up conversations. They’ve shared tips on how to make certain plants grow taller, where to find wild blackberries in Madison, and stories of college studies in Africa. James and I have helped look for lost cats, been invited to karaoke, and welcomed into homes for tea and desserts.

The most recent and striking moment of connection came just before the Fourth of July, when a police car pulled up to our house after I reported finding a full set of keys in the area. I ran out to meet the officer and handed over the keys. As the car drove off and I turned back toward the stoop, a young woman who lives several blocks away walked by and asked, “Is everything okay? Do you need anything?”

I love the feeling of being part of a neighborhood community.