I moved two weeks ago.
The furniture is in place, all the boxes have been unpacked and most of the pictures are on the walls.
Now it is mostly a matter of adjusting to my new environment, breaking old patterns and establishing new ones. For example, I’ve driven to the wrong house more than once since the move, almost as though I were on auto-pilot. Also, some things in my new house aren’t where they were in my old house, which also takes some getting used to. There are things that I used to have but don’t have anymore.
Slowly, I am also learning about my new neighbors. In the early evenings I sit out in front of the house and observe their comings and goings. I’ve spoken to only a few so far. The lady next door is Annette. I do not believe she would be offended if I were to refer to her as a senior citizen, although it would be rude to suggest how senior she actually is. She is friendly and always ready to engage in small talk as she emerges from her home to run errands or do whatever else Annette does.
I met another neighbor, too, but promptly forgot his name as soon as he told me. He did say that there were two cops who lived on the block, which I took as good news.
Sunday, I met “G” and “J,” two boys, ages 10 and 12, who moved into a house two doors down the day before. They rode by on their bicycles and paused long enough to inquire if I had any kids, which is very important information when you are 10 and 12.
“No, I said,” but I have two silly old dogs in the back yard.”
Naturally, they wanted to meet them, and Paddy and Dooley were enthusiastic about it, chasing the boys around the yard, happily playing a game of tennis ball fetch, and rolling over for belly rubs.
Their mom arrived a few minutes later.
“I came after these two,” she said, watching her boys play with the dogs. She was not unfriendly, but I did get the sense she was measuring me, which is understandable. It is the world we live in.
The two boys left, asking if they could come back to visit. I said sure, but they should always ask their mom first.
I’m sure they will find better things to do because I counted five basketball goals set up in driveways on the block, a sure sign that there are a lot of kids in the neighborhood. G and J are going to have plenty of kids to play with. Good for them. Good for everybody on the block. Nothing breathes life into a neighborhood like kids.
Aside from G and J, the only kids I’ve actually seen live directly across the street, in a little yellow house. I’ve not met them, nor their dad, who always waves to me as he comes out to let his two big dogs do their business and check the mail each evening.
What I have not seen is a mom. Perhaps she is away on business or maybe she is a solider on deployment, leaving Dad to tend to the two little boys, who I estimate to be around 4 and 2.
But until otherwise proven, I’m assuming that the man lives there alone with his two boys and two dogs.
Each morning, there is the elaborate choreography of taking the dogs out, retrieving the kids, one at a time, and packing them into their car seats, returning to gather back-packs and then head out to daycare for them and work for him.
It’s the same routine in the evening. As darkness falls, he arrives, unpacks the kids, takes the dogs out, goes to the mailbox and waves at me from across the street.
Yesterday, the 4-year-old went to the mailbox with Dad and was allowed to linger long enough to stomp in a mud puddle for a while, something moms would forbid. “Way to go, Dad,” I thought.
The mud puddle stomping ended, and they all retreated into the little yellow house where I’m sure Dad’s work was far from done. Dinner and baths and maybe bed-time stories. If he’s lucky, Dad has an hour or so to himself before going to bed and waking up to the same busy routine.
Single parents often get a bad rap, I think. We make all sorts of judgments about them, most of them unfair, unkind, uncharitable. We should be ashamed, I think.
After all, is there anything more heroic than a single parent, doing his or her best, sacrificing themselves for the sake of their children? I wonder if my neighbor ever gets lonely. I wonder if he get frustrated. I wonder if he just gets tired. He loves his boys. I can see that, even from across the street. But some blessings carry burden, sometimes heavy ones. I wonder if he sometimes feels that way.
I keep hoping that I am wrong. I like to imagine that someday, maybe tomorrow, Mom will show up in her combat fatigues and Dad and the boys and the dogs will rush out to meet her and they’ll hug and kiss and roll around on the lawn and the dogs will go nuts. Then, they’ll all go back in the little yellow house and be happy and life won’t be quite so hard anymore.
But I fear that is just a fantasy.
This evening, Dad and I will exchange waves as he goes out the get the mail and the 4-year-old looks for a mud puddle to stomp — one of the daily routines of my new neighborhood I’m learning about.
There are two cops on my block, I’ve been told.
Which means there are three heroes.
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
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