I’ve taken to sitting on my front porch lately. One reason is because it offers more to look at than my back porch. Another reason is because I‘m in love with a man who smokes cigarettes. He’s considerate enough to take his habit outside and I often go outside with him while he gets his nicotine fix. A third reason is because said man comes with a dog named Penny, and Penny has a crazed obsession with the squirrels that frolic about in the front yard (see photo). Her endless excitement over the chattering tree rodents is more engaging than most things on television.
My porch sitting has made me more aware of the comings and goings on my block. For example, my new neighbor to the north is from Ethiopia and teaches at the university. She has a boyfriend. Sort of. I think? I see his car parked out front most Saturday nights. On Sunday mornings, they each leave her house at the same time in separate cars. But, as soon as he’s out of sight, she returns in her car, alone. Hmmm?
My Jewish neighbors make me smile all over. From sunset Friday to sunset Saturday their comings and goings is a veritable parade of culture and family. They walk in droves throughout the neighborhood. They walk in middle of the street. I overhear them chatting in Hebrew with one another. Women with covered heads and hemlines well below the knees. Men in their black jackets and tall, wide brimmed black hats. Children (oh-so-many-children!), scampering beside the adults in their toddler-sized black and white attire.
Then there are my Hispanic/Latino neighbors. The family at the bottom of the hill had a huge party this summer, complete with piñatas and Mariachis. Salsa and merengue dancing carried on into the wee hours with uncles dancing with sisters, fathers dancing with daughters, mothers dancing with babies and Spanish spoken by all. A culture and language decidedly different from our Jewish neighbors, yet also very much the same.
At the other end of my block is a vacant lot, overgrown with tall grass, weeds, bushes and trees. Deep in the thick of it, homeless people set up a camp of sorts. Several boxes, an awning, and broken lawn chairs could be spotted between the foliage. I’m not the only person who noticed this ramshackle housing, but I’m not aware of anyone complaining, or reporting them to the authorities. I don’t quite understand the unspoken tolerance that reigned in this situation. Once the weather turned cold, the cardboard box residents moved on - - to warmer accommodations - - I hope.
Yesterday evening I watched two elderly Jewish women shuffle down the middle of my street. One was pushing a walker and another was pushing a wheelchair. With shoulders bent, they managed small, slow, careful steps forward. As they approached the corner I heard, or rather, FELT the distinctive noise of a gang banger boom box. The women drew closer to the corner as did the vibrating music. As the women arrived at the intersection, so did the tricked-out low-rider with the offending super sub woofer. The driver and his passenger looked like stereotypical inner-city drug lords from a movie, complete with tattoos, leather, and machismo running amok. But then, something unexpected happened. The low riders saw the hesitant women trying to negotiate their way across the street, and they not only came to a FULL AND COMPLETE STOP, BUT THEY ALSO TURNED OFF THEIR MUSIC! They waited until the women were well clear of the intersection before driving forward. It wasn’t until their car was out of sight that I felt their boom box resume its infernal beat.
My neighbors - - in all their cultural, socio economic and religious diversity - - are a microcosm of the world. I may enjoy watching it all unfold, entwine, flourish and struggle from the chair on my front porch but, please, don’t call me Gladys Kravitz!
