Ignore the Girl Next Door
There’s a lot of folks saying that we don’t really know our neighbors these days. That due to the distractions of technology, we’re in some kind of crisis none of the Cleavers or citizens of Mayberry could ever imagine (my folks watch a lot of old TV shows, which you would never know, because it’s none of your pesky business).
The truth is, technology has given us too much info about our neighbors.
I hear a lot about these neighborhood watch apps that get whole zip codes into a tizzy. Is that a mountain lion or a raccoon? Whose car is parked down the street? Someone oughta trim up the grass on that boulevard.
When I was a kid, in a pre-app society, we used to call our next door neighbor ‘Tim the Toolman Taylor’, because we only ever saw his eyes looking over the fence. We got the name from the popular and blandly wholesome family sitcom Home Improvement. Technically it was the recurring character Wilson who never revealed his whole face, but that doesn’t change the fact that the real Tim Allen is kind of weird these days, and all of our neighborly interactions came from throwing twigs over the fence to play with fake-Tim’s dog. The dog’s name was Bjorn. I know all of my neighbors’ dogs.
Not knowing your neighbor’s name or what they look like below their nasal bridge is fairly freeing. It makes interactions with the people next to you more intimate. They’re the ones co-existing with you due to proximity, not choice. I’ve never actually formally introduced myself to the people in my places of residence. Mostly because I think they’d probably be mad at me. I’m a night owl. In the midst of a recent midnight dishwashing session I sent a stack of pots and pans crashing to the linoleum floor. To elaborate for my neighbor’s sake, I yelped “OW” really loudly so they would feel sympathy for me. That’s just plain courtesy, Aunt Bee style.
After getting dumped on in a snowstorm last year, the gal in the house next door offered me her heavy-duty snow shovel after watching me struggle to clear my sidewalk. “You can only find metal ones like these at auctions or estate sales,” she said.
She kept her Scandinavian-patterned wool scarf wrapped tightly around the lower half of her face. We chatted about various things, muffled by our outdoor gear, while I demonstrated my winter survival ineptitude. Surprisingly, she knew a lot about my comings and goings and inside-habits, so there may be a Rear Window situation happening, but for a sturdy shovel, I’m willing to make that exchange. I’m no fool. Sharing is one of the main tenets of a Mr. Rogers life lived well.
Courtesy will always overpower my curiosity when it comes to knowing what’s happening next door. Last month I found a slice of pepperoni pizza and a single baby sock on my front lawn. What happened? Who passed by? A hungry semi-barefoot infant? A pizza delivery driver with impossibly small feet? I relish the mystery. No need to be excessive about sharing dirty laundry or that cup of sugar. Trust me. Your dog does.
This piece was written for the Community Columnist section of the Bismarck Tribune.
