While searching for a house in Southern Indiana, I stumbled upon some new construction in Clarksville, Indiana. I had moved from Madera, California with my job as a loan office manager for a small loan company and was looking for a place to settle into with my bride and 5-year-old daughter. We found a house on Cottonwood Drive, and moved in. There were wonderful things that occurred at 960 Cottonwood Drive.
I met my neighbors and spent time and money with two of them on the construction of a fence to surround and enclose our three houses. And once my beloved dog Duffy was contained along with his child (my child) Lisa, the party was on. The doctor across the street had a young daughter who loved my own 5-year-old daughter. I would find Nikki in my house, climbing the stairs, and when I asked her (a 3-year-old child) why she was there, she would tell me, “I want to see Lisa.”
One of the parties we had was called “progressive.” These progressive dinner parties allowed neighbors to gather and break bread together (as well as wine, whiskey, and beer) and get to know each other. One house, chosen at random, would host the cocktails, the next the hors d’oeurves, the next the salads, then the main course, then dessert, and the last, the postprandial drinks. The parties encouraged and nourished the conviviality of the neighbors, in much the same way as the “National Night Out” gatherings in my current neighborhood.
National Night out is “an annual community-building campaign that promotes police-community partnerships and neighborhood camaraderie…” In Indianapolis, it culminates on the second Tuesday in August, and one of the co-captains of the block, Karen Davis, is my next-door neighbor. She gave me a flyer announcing the gathering, and invited my youngest granddaughter, who was visiting, to help in passing out the rest of the announcements. Myah joined Karen in the delivery of the flyers. 2022 was my first year in this North Irvington neighborhood, and my first National Night Out gathering was at the house of co-captain Susie Payne. This year, I dragged my potluck offering — slow cooker party wings — and chair next door to Karen and Todd Davis’ house.
Karen encouraged the attendees to sit with someone they did not know well and chat them up to see what they had in common. I sat with Charles, and he shared with me that he grew up in Louisville, Kentucky. He was in the Army in 1967 — I told him that I graduated from high school in 1965 — and told me where he was when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. I raised my impudent and out-of-order hand and told the gathering that Charles and I had Louisville in common, a city where I had worked, owned property, and coached T-Ball. Though I was not seated with them, I learned that David and Thelma had lost their dog Kobe to illness. Kobe had been a frequent visitor to my dog-watering station and had responded well to my loving scratch.
Police officers Stacey and Roman joined our group, just as they had the previous year. They are community resource officers with the neighborhood impact unit and passed out what we in the advertising industry call “trinkets and trash”: police badge stickers, miniature key-ring flashlights, and police officer ballpoint pens. They were also kind and collaborative with my impudent 5-year-old granddaughter, who showed them a squirrel she had drawn and that was wanted for stealing nuts. It was a good night out. As I was finishing this column, I got another invitation: The 9th street block party is on for September 9th.
cjon3acd@att.net