Not long ago, I changed the route for my near-daily neighborhood walk. I walk for exercise and to think, not for scenery; and so the monotony of the same route every day seldom bothers me. But every so often, a change is in order. So now I’m walking past different houses on different, but still-familiar streets, and noticing details that I don’t pick up when I’m driving through on an errand.
Our neighborhood is a Levitt neighborhood, built in the late 1960s. It has about 600 houses or so, all of them built in one of five or six styles that were popular at that time--ranch, colonial, Dutch colonial, Cape Cod--you get the idea. Our house is a ranch style, which the Levitt Company called the Judson model. All of the house styles have names. I know only the Judson (mine) and the Endicott (the colonial).
On one of the main streets through our neighborhood, there’s a house in a style that I call the Hollywood house, because its front courtyard reminds me of a movie actor’s Beverly Hills starter house circa 1950. I don’t know the style name, but it’s a u-shaped house, and the front courtyard is enclosed with a low brick wall and a gate. It’s nicer than it sounds. There are only a few of these houses in the neighborhood, and I like them. The particular example that I’m thinking about is one that I have actually seen from the inside. A friend is a real estate agent, and I visit her open houses. It was probably ten years ago when I visited this house, and it was at its for-sale open house best, inside and out.
A decade later, and the house is less pristine, less show house perfect, but it still looks very nice. The shrubs and trees have matured, offering more privacy and shade for the courtyard; and the brick wall and walkway and the wrought iron gate look sturdy and well cared for.
So I walked past the house, and I saw a homemade political sign on the strip of grass that borders the sidewalk in front of the house. The sign has a red elephant and a blue donkey and the legend “I'm not undecided. I'm unimpressed.” As someone who hates both major parties, I agreed in general principle with the sign, though I’m not undecided. I’m voting for the candidate who isn’t Trump. But that is the extent of my partisan commitment. I walked past the house another day, and I noticed a cartoon taped to the brick wall. Literally taped, with Scotch tape. I don’t know how it stayed put, but maybe it’s extra heavy-duty Scotch tape. I stopped to look at the cartoon, which was an old, non-political Far Side. I must not have found it very funny, because I don’t remember it.
A day or so later, I found that in addition to the elephant and the donkey and the Far Side, the owner had also posted another lawn sign, for his own handyman business. He also parked an old truck on the street in front of the house, with For Sale signs in its front and rear windows. I didn’t think anything of this; the truck, or the additional sign, or the cartoon, until I walked past the house again the next day. The truck and the signs and the cartoon were still there, along with a cooler, a very large, mountain-climbing-style backpack, and two old but serviceable folding beach chairs. The whole thing had begun to take on the look of a campsite; or maybe “encampment” is a better word. I wondered what was next. A tent? A picnic table? Lanterns and a bucket-style shower? An outdoor stove powered by Sterno cans?
*****
I avoided the area for a bit, to give the site a little time to expand. It was like waiting for a package. I looked forward to seeing the next surprise. Then I walked past the house again a few days later. The folding chairs and the truck and the cooler and backpack were gone, replaced with wooden spindle-back Colonial-style chairs and a bookcase, lending the scene an air of living-room permanence. The Far Side cartoon was gone. Maybe he was having it framed as part of the redecorating effort. He had also added another lawn sign proclaiming his independent political affiliation, though he hadn’t put down a carpet yet. It seemed possible that he was just discarding the bookcase and the chairs; but the arrangement (chairs slightly tilted inward toward each other to encourage conversation, and facing the bookcase) suggested that they were there for a purpose.
I kept thinking about the homeowner as “he.” I never saw anyone enter or exit the house when I was walking past, and I don’t know iif a whole family lives there or if it’s just a man or perhaps an older couple; but I felt certain that the person who was arranging and re-arranging the furniture and decor was a man, at least in his 60s or possibly 70s.
*****
Our little Levitt-built community has a governing association and a neighborhood pool and a very active listserv and even a newsletter--an old-fashioned on-paper newsletter printed on yellow paper, stapled in the upper-left corner, and hand-delivered in hard copy to every home in the neighborhood, four to five times a year. Most of the houses are more than 50 years old, but we still have quite a robust contingent of original owners. I also know of at least three houses owned by people who grew up in the neighborhood (two of those people own their actual childhood homes). We have block parties. We have a neighborhood swim team. We have walking groups and an annual 5K. It’s a mid-century suburban enclave that feels like a small town.
There are advantages and disadvantages to this neighborly spirit. People here look after one another. We know our neighbors and we know our neighbors’ children. It’s nice to feel like part of a community, and to see your friends’ children grow up, and even to mourn with your neighbors when a family member dies.
On the other hand, people do like to be up in each other’s business, as they say; especially when it comes to property maintenance and appearance. We have rules (they’re called covenants), which most people don’t pay much attention to, but which are very very important to a certain contingent of people who are particular about the way the neighborhood looks. These are the people who complain about unsanctioned fences and sheds. They make pointed comments on the listserv when a neighbor’s lawn is overgrown or if their leaves are not raked. Anonymous calls to the county code enforcement office are not unheard of. Shit gets real.
So even as I followed the expansion of my neighbor’s little campsite, I wondered what the other neighbors were thinking. Something about the arrangement of the furniture and signs and clippings made me think that maybe the man was trying to provoke a reaction, or that he wanted to display his iconoclastic lack of concern for rules and suburban aesthetic standards. Maybe he wanted to bring the indoors out. I don’t know if he follows the listserv or if he reads the newsletter. Maybe he does, but he thinks that people wouldn’t notice the gradual accumulation of stuff; or he hoped that they would and that he could use his little display as an opportunity to fight for his right to do whatever he wanted on his own property. Anyway, I continued to follow these developments with considerable interest.
*****
After another few days, I walked past again. The Far Side cartoon was back, taped to the brick wall with thick strips of shipping tape; and a new cartoon was taped right next to it. The new cartoon depicted a bunch of Bozos in the House chamber. The caption read “In the halls of Clowngress.” This man’s design sensibility is interesting, but his taste in political humor is suspect at best.
The chairs and bookcase were still where I’d last seen them. There was also a barn jacket hanging from a hanger on a tree, with a stack of folded clothes on a chair just beneath it. A lantern was placed on top of the bookcase, right in the middle. This was getting interesting. I wondered if maybe the man’s wife was threatening to throw him out of the house, and maybe he was planning to camp out on the front lawn and sidewalk. I resolved to walk past the next day, to make sure that I didn’t miss anything.
The next day, almost everything was gone, except for the jacket. A disassembled bookcase--I wasn’t sure if it was the same one or not--was piled neatly in the driveway. And there he was! A man in his 60s was dragging his recycling bin down the driveway to the curb. He smiled and waved at me, and I smiled and waved back, and I kept walking.
*****
The homeowner was a white man in his 60s, just as I had predicted. But still he wasn’t exactly what I had expected. He was friendly and smiling and quite normal-looking--not wild-eyed, not even unkempt. I’d avoided taking pictures of the site because I thought that maybe a madman was watching from the window and that he’d run out to confront me if he saw me photographing his property. I’d walk past, nonchalant and carefree, minding my own business; and then I’d stop to take a few cursory notes so that I wouldn’t forget details. But I suppose I needn’t have bothered with the precautions, because I don’t think that this man would have cared. He might even have posed for the picture.
It was warm for a few days, but now it’s cold again, and the campsite is gone for now. I never did figure out what was behind it, and why it disappeared almost as suddenly as it appeared. I watched the listserv closely, waiting for complaints about the situation; but surprisingly, no one said a word. Maybe any neighbors who objected spoke directly with the man and politely asked him to dismantle the encampment, and he obligingly did so. Because it’s still possible for neighbors to be nice to each other, and to be reasonable, and to cooperate and compromise. It’s still possible for people to care about others’ feelings. I’d like to think that this is what happened.
I wish that I had taken a few pictures, but this hot mess is well over a thousand words now and so I have the equivalent of at least one and three-quarter pictures. The ever-changing campsite was a highlight of my daily walk for a few days, and I’ll miss it. But maybe it will be back in the spring. Maybe a lot of things will be back in the spring.
