Community

On Tuesdays, I always phone my mother. Other days during the week too, but every Tuesday we have a phone date. This morning I listened with envy as she reminisced about her childhood. Not envy, that’s not quite the right word, maybe a better word will come to me as I continue. She grew up in the city of Fort Wayne, in a neighborhood, in a community. A community where the parents knew each other, they watched out for each other’s children. A community that sat on front porches, went for after dinner walks, and cared for each other. “Children were safe in the street” my mom said.

How does a neighborhood become a community? I live in a neighborhood, but it is not a community. I want a lot of things for my children, and a community is easily in the top 5. I want to know my neighbors and their children; I want my neighbors to know my children.

I grew up in a farm. I say “in” instead of “on” because we were surrounded by pasture. Our driveway was long, ¼ mile and went through a pasture; we had cattle guards at either end of the drive. I always had to explain to my town friends that it was OKAY TO DRIVE OVER IT!

It was a community, but a different kind. It was community that came together for hay-making or rounding up cows, or attempting to round up pigs (that is its own story). We didn’t get together very often to just visit. Our kind of community was safe too, on an average day we didn’t see anyone besides family. My little brother JT and I got up about 5 each morning to do the morning barn chores. On Saturdays my dad would tape an additional chore list to the television. We had to complete those before we turned it on. We played “Lewis and Clark” in the woods, we waded in the creeks, and swung from the barn rafters. My dad would wake us to watch a goat being born, and we were never turned away from watching one being butchered either. My parents were my community, my little brother my best friend.

If I could, I would give to my children both of these communities. But I can’t. I can’t give them a farm. I hear that there are farms in VA, but I think it’s a myth. I live in a neighborhood with no sidewalks, and our front porches are too small for chairs. So if I want a community for my children I have to create it.

Whether D wants to or not, we are having a neighborhood party when he gets home. I am going to learn names and invent reasons to stop by unannounced. I actually love it when mail gets delivered to our house by mistake. I know I could just put it in the mailbox, but this is an opportunity to talk to my neighbors, so I always take it to the door.

Maybe this is something that my neighbors want too? I guess I’ll find out. My neighbors WILL learn my name, but whether they repeat it with kindness or annoyance remains to be seen.

Nope, couldn't think of a better word.  Envy it is.