Caffeinated Politics

Originally posted July, 8. 2009

It was a most pleasant sound that wafted across the warm air.  A group of about ten women, comprising a writer’s group, had gathered on the back patio at one of our neighbors’ to talk about their creative efforts and get feedback from each other.  (Our neighbor is sending out her first children’s book to publishers.)  The light-hearted banter and gentle laughter mingled with the tingling of glasses filled with iced tea.  I was transplanting flowers and watering, so I only heard the group at random moments when I was in the back of our house.  But it was a wonderful sound and alerted me again to the newest growing feeling within me.  Now in my mid-40s, I am only starting to experience what I have long wanted: being in a neighborhood community.

I grew up in the country where my neighbors consisted of my grandparents and two sets of aunts and uncles.  It made for a safe, nurturing environment and was a good life for a kid, but there were many times that I desperately wanted more excitement.  Watching a long row of bean-picking machines rumble down our country road was just not enough for me.  When my family would travel on summer vacations to the Rockies, I recall we always took the city bypasses to miss the heavy traffic.  I yearned to see the bustle and intensity of city life.  Today, those bypasses make sense, but as a kid, I looked out the back window of the Buick at the tall buildings in the distance that we were skirting, knowing there had to be some excitement out there somewhere.

When I landed in Madison 22 years ago, I found some nice apartments and even some great friends who lived in them.  But for the most part, the experience was limited as I did not feel like I was a part of any neighborhood.  Big apartment buildings breed isolation, not only within the actual residence but also as a frame of reference.   I recall that a pollster asked me one time during a political season if I felt more like a member of a neighborhood, our nation, or the world community.  Clearly, at that time in my life, I did not feel a part of a neighborhood.

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

During the past two years of living in an Isthmus neighborhood, I have come to truly enjoy and embrace the sounds and faces of daily life.   The sounds of bikers on the city path, the train whistle with its declaratory blast, the laughter of a neighbor over the hedge, or another upon seeing me outside asking, “What did you think about….?”, where we then dissect the latest news topic.  There are probably thirty different people that I now know from the larger neighborhood as a result of them rounding our corner and striking up conversations.   They have provided insights into how to make this or that plant grow taller, where to get wild blackberries in Madison, or tales of college studies in Africa.  James and I have helped look for lost cats, been invited to Karaoke, and been over to homes for tea and desserts.

The most recent and striking connection with the neighborhood was when a police car pulled up to our residence shortly before the Fourth of July, after I had found a full set of keys in the area.  I ran out to the car with the keys that I had called the cops about and talked for a minute.  As the officer drove off, I started walking back to the stoop.  A young woman who lives several blocks down walked by and asked, “Is everything OK? Do you need anything?”

I love the feeling of being in a neighborhood community.

Originally posted July, 8. 2009