The two sawhorses that blocked a street were a challenge to me, and after my friend drove me down the cross street and toward my home, I dropped off the luggage that serves as my “purse” and headed for the barriers.
In a column dated August 12, 2022, I wrote of “A Good Night Out” with my neighbors. That night was devoted to a gathering of neighbors and friends with the common goal of concern for the safety of the community. There was food and fun, information and introductions, and from me, a song upon leaving. The reception that I received at that early August gathering empowered me on this recent occasion to bust through the sawhorses that had “Block Party” emblazoned across them and sit down with the strangers among me.
I sit on my front porch and watch the parade of people and dogs. When my youngest granddaughter is with me and sees an animal being shepherded down the street, she will burst into song: “Doggie!” She will ask the shepherd if she may pet the doggie, and I will go through the rules of engagement: Put you hand palm out for the dog to sniff then turn your palm to pet the dog on the head. To date, not one dog has chewed on Myah’s hand. (Her uncle had his arm chewed by a dog and advised me that when a dog is chewing on your arm, to pour water on its nose.) But in this balmy evening when I “went headlong over all the social boundaries” (an oblique reference to Stephen Crane’s short story) I sat comfortably among my neighbors, and we chatted about life. I told the small group I had joined where I lived, which is one short block from the gathering, to establish my bona fides: I am a “Neighb.”
After exchanges and laughter, I rose to return home and one of the attendees noted that we knew each other and that I had not said a word to her or her husband. I expressed sorrow and delivered my apologies, for I later remembered when her husband came up to me as I sat in Coal Yard Coffee listening to the jazz, and asked me, “Do you shoot pool?” His first clue was the ballcap I was wearing that had two pool balls on the crown. I averred that I did, indeed, and his bride revealed that they had a pool table in the basement of their house and that she used it as a place to fold the wash. I’m unsure of my reaction at the time, but it is entirely possible that I went home and bawled into my pillow.
Not all my neighbors know me, though I’m sure that most have seen me ambling about the ‘hood. When I lived at the corner of Bolton and Julian, I would push my youngest granddaughter along the street, pointing out the birds that I heard. At five months old, she was unable to appreciate the joy, but I never gave up, nor was I ever concerned about what the neighbors thought of our outings.
Some of my neighbors may have seen me trundling my youngest granddaughter in a red wagon toward Ellenberger Park. Those who have not seen me may have heard from their friends that I was there, and my granddaughter was, also. We wave and say “Hi” to all the people we encounter on our travels, and especially to the people who have dogs. She quietly asks what my Pittsburgh friend Fred Rogers asked of the world:
“Won’t you be my neighbor?”
cjon3acd@att.net