“Clop: Can we look out the front door?”
My youngest granddaughter — now 5.5 years old — put that question to me on a recent visit to my house. Myah and her mother were my roommates until she was 4 ½ years old, and I had been her weekday caretaker from the time she was 5 months old until she was about 4 years old. When she would awaken from her night’s sleep, I heard her movements over the baby monitor, and would go into her room to get her ready for the day. I had established a routine for the two of us. I would change her diaper (or put her on the potty chair) and lift her into my arms so that we could walk around her bedroom. We would turn on the ceiling light, open the curtains and the blinds. We’d walk into the living room to open the drapes. Finally, we would open the front door to look outside. When the time and weather were right, we would go out to ring the wind chimes, or — when she was older — to see if it were “hot, warm or cold” outside. We checked on the sparrow’s nest to see if there were chicks, checked the food level in the hummingbird feeder, then came inside to eat. But most of our daily adventures began with a look out the front door. And on this recent day, Myah seemed to have remembered our routine, and I opened the door.
My nearest neighbor can tell you that when I am at home, my front door is always open. It is not “open” as in “step right in,” (which someone almost did) but swung wide to admit the light. Opening that door is the second thing that I do upon arising from sleep. The glass outer door stays closed, for the bugs and bees are not welcome, but I sit in my living room with the inner door open. My neighbor walks over and will gently tap on the outer door; I step outside, and we talk of zinnias, dogs, 5-year-old grandchildren, or whether I would accompany her to Joanne’s Fabrics for embellishments to her witches’ costume.
Looking out my front door I will see a man briskly rounding the corner near my lawn. The rhythmic movement of his arms are an accompaniment to his stride and in his right hand, he carries an envelope. He appears to be headed toward the USPS letter box, which is at the north end of the street. A woman of “a certain age” moves slowly up and down her driveway, getting in her steps. A couple is busy grooming their lawn; they will soon take their two dogs for a stroll. Some days, I will see a cluster of school children heading south, gabbing as they walk. Some of them will be running, calling out encouragement to each other. On sunny days, I will see a woman pushing a stroller, a child’s leg extended from the front. And almost any day, I will see leashed dogs leading people holding plastic bags, the dogs that Myah always wants to pet.
When Myah asked to look out the front door, she was expressing the behavior imprinted upon her by her grandfather, her “Clop,” who used to dress her warmly and take her into the street to dance in the snow or splash in the rain puddles. There were fewer people walking past the front door that we shared, but there are many for her to see now, when she looks out my front door.
cjon3acd@att.net