Make-believe neighbors

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

I walk most days on a prescribed route through my neighborhood. Each house and the people within it have unique stories — stories I long to hear.

I know the basics of the people who live on my block — more than their names and whether they are working or retired. A few neighbors have become friends.

I know very little about other neighbors beyond my block. Ever-curious, I would like to ring their doorbells and ask them to tell me about their lives. But I know better than to impose on their privacy.

Instead, I often concoct their stories, using the minute details I pick up on my walks. One example is the mystery of the woman living in a fairytale-like cottage with a front yard filled with plants of varying hues and a stone path meandering through the garden. Her red car is usually in the side driveway. In good weather, she prunes and digs and plants in that lovely yard. I say hello when I walk by, always complimenting her on her home and yard’s artistry.

A few times a year, I see a station wagon parked in the driveway outside the garage and a man outside the house. My imagination adds details to the woman’s and man’s story as I circle the block again on another day. I posit they were married for many years and then, as sometimes happens, they separated after the kids were grown but still appreciate being together once or twice a month. He works out of town the rest of the time.

I tested my theory with my close neighbor — a veritable fountain of knowledge about everyone in the hood. Teresa is not a quidnunc (Latin term for someone who spreads gossip). Rather, she is a balabusta, Yiddish for a woman who loves and cares for her family, her friends and her community who strives to get to know them and herself better over time.

Teresa tells me their story is the opposite of what I imagined. They are a long-married retired couple. The man is a homebody who is content to be inside their house tinkering with a variety of hobbies. His wife is more gregarious and, thus, out and about much more often.

What do my musings — with their almost certain false conclusions — say about being a neighbor and my desire to fill in the gaps when I don’t know people’s stories?

I grew up in a close neighborhood within a small town. Now I live in a charming village within a large city. I live alone after raising my daughter. Thanks to my small-town history, personality and life circumstances, I want to be close to all my neighbors. Yet I recognize becoming close friends with them is far from automatic. Maybe I do this make-believe dance as a substitute for the closeness I want but that takes consistent time and energy to germinate.

Another possible clue to the “why” of my fascination with my neighbors is my illicit love affair with reality TV drama and psychological thrillers. My life in these years is mainly placid and unhurried — some would say boring. “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills,” “The Girl on the Train” and my reflection on my neighbors’ mysteries keep life’s dangers at bay while injecting a jolt of adrenaline.

I leave room to be glaringly, uproariously wrong about my neighbors’ lives. In fact, I welcome it. Perhaps this summer I will organize a block party, giving me license to ask some of the questions I so long to explore and move from make-believe toward more of what I really need: community.