I have my own rules about neighbors, and they don’t include the cliché, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ Mine are ‘Wave but don’t speak, smile but don’t stop walking, acknowledge but don’t engage.’ In other words, seem friendly but not too friendly. My rules have worked well for me. No tears have been shed when people moved out of the neighborhood. Sure, it’s sometimes odd when I meet someone who lives down the street and they know my husband and two dogs but have no idea who I am. I try to explain my thought process to them, but they seem somewhat offended. But if I don’t follow my rules, I get hurt.
The first home we owned was in a perfect Brentwood neighborhood with a mix of young families and older couples. The houses were so close, you could see into the ones next to you. Our two next-door neighbors were right out of central casting: a good-looking single guy, John, and a newly married couple, Anne and Chris. We were all friends. Often when I pulled into the driveway after work, Chris and my husband were waiting for me on the front steps drinking a beer. Many Sunday nights we had dinner together, and even though we had a small child, it reminded me of Friends (although I think this was before it was on the air!). And then we broke up. Carey and I moved to Webster Groves because we needed a bigger house for our expanding family. Off we went with promises that we would forever keep in touch. And we did, until life got in the way.
We had lovely neighbors in Webster Groves, but no Sunday night dinners or beers on the porch. Our next move was to Clayton, and we were back to seeing into our neighbors’ homes. This cemented my ‘don’t speak, just smile’ rule. Sure, casual chitchat in a shared driveway was fine, but there was no sitting around drinking beers together. As people moved in and out, there were no reasons for hugs or lengthy goodbyes. No emotion, which is just the way I like it. Well, except for now.
I have not exchanged more than five sentences with the couple next door. Sure, I give them a wave and a smile. I really don’t even talk to their three kids, but it’s because of them and their dog that I am sad to see them go. They have two sons who remind me of my own. Whether they are on rollerblades or a scooter, they go careening down the driveway, and it always makes me laugh. They scream at each other, play ball, do all the stuff that my son used to do but doesn’t anymore because, well, he’s 28. The oldest daughter periodically comes out to give them a look. You know, THE look, as if she wishes she could make them disappear. Oh, and did I tell you their dog is the size of a small bear? Damn it, I like them and I don’t even know them. So now it will be even more awkward when I cry as the moving truck pulls away.
When the new neighbors move in, I will go back to my polite nod and wave. I am determined not to be sucked in again.
Contact Patty at phannum@townandstyle.com.
