I took the curtains off the sidelite windows yesterday, in preparation for our new storm door, and each time I pass it by, I am startled by how naked I suddenly feel.
Our world has become one whose hatches are battened, toggles are buttoned and seams are sealed tight. Fifty years ago, it was customary to pop your head in your neighbor's door and let out a "yoohoo", and now the door has become deadlocked, barricaded and made of steel.
I have mentioned before that I was raised on a mountain, where privacy was not only possible, but all too often the norm. In winter, the street was dark as pitch, because the inhabited homes were few and far between. My parents would go to sleep early, and I would be left in the quiet, longing for companionship and the noises of a suburb.
Friends who lived below Taborton led, in my eyes, an easier life. They did not help split wood with a hatchet in November, or drag mattresses in front of the coal stove during power outages. When they wanted a "playdate", a simple bicycle ride could get them there. My first taste of this freedom was in college, and by golly, I took advantage.
My entire adult life, I have longed for the random neighbors popping in for a cup of coffee (though I would have to be taught how to make it first) or the nonstop ringing of the bell on Halloween evening. I have wanted to shoo my children out on their bicycles only to have them return with a handful of friends begging for dinner. I am chastised by my husband, my parents, my more urban friends because I only lock my door while sleeping. I laugh thinking that if I were to have my way, the door would be a swinging one, alive and busy with the visitors bursting forth.
Now that Jake is living elsewhere, and school has begun, I am immersed in quiet once more. My lovely little tree frogs have started to take shelter, and the windows must be shut against the early morning chill. The dark yawns wider and earlier each night, and so the door becomes locked for longer periods of time. I walk to the mail box at one each afternoon, when the twins are safely ensconced in their crib, and the street has become deserted. This is a far cry from just a few weeks ago, when lawnmowers, teenagers and hesitant children bikers were littering the front lawn of every house.
Like a chameleon, I must adapt now. I must draw closed the curtains when I tuck the kids in, and avert my eyes when a winter weary neighbor trudges past. I must pack away my summer smile with my good weather wardrobe, and accept the solitude until April.
But I have decided, being the rebel I am, to leave the curtains off my sidelites. My private middle finger to the laws of reclusion. If you drive by, and you think my door looks a bit naked, you may see that the light is also on. This is my plea, my friends: Please poke your head in and yoohoo.
Our world has become one whose hatches are battened, toggles are buttoned and seams are sealed tight. Fifty years ago, it was customary to pop your head in your neighbor's door and let out a "yoohoo", and now the door has become deadlocked, barricaded and made of steel.
I have mentioned before that I was raised on a mountain, where privacy was not only possible, but all too often the norm. In winter, the street was dark as pitch, because the inhabited homes were few and far between. My parents would go to sleep early, and I would be left in the quiet, longing for companionship and the noises of a suburb.
Friends who lived below Taborton led, in my eyes, an easier life. They did not help split wood with a hatchet in November, or drag mattresses in front of the coal stove during power outages. When they wanted a "playdate", a simple bicycle ride could get them there. My first taste of this freedom was in college, and by golly, I took advantage.
My entire adult life, I have longed for the random neighbors popping in for a cup of coffee (though I would have to be taught how to make it first) or the nonstop ringing of the bell on Halloween evening. I have wanted to shoo my children out on their bicycles only to have them return with a handful of friends begging for dinner. I am chastised by my husband, my parents, my more urban friends because I only lock my door while sleeping. I laugh thinking that if I were to have my way, the door would be a swinging one, alive and busy with the visitors bursting forth.
Now that Jake is living elsewhere, and school has begun, I am immersed in quiet once more. My lovely little tree frogs have started to take shelter, and the windows must be shut against the early morning chill. The dark yawns wider and earlier each night, and so the door becomes locked for longer periods of time. I walk to the mail box at one each afternoon, when the twins are safely ensconced in their crib, and the street has become deserted. This is a far cry from just a few weeks ago, when lawnmowers, teenagers and hesitant children bikers were littering the front lawn of every house.
Like a chameleon, I must adapt now. I must draw closed the curtains when I tuck the kids in, and avert my eyes when a winter weary neighbor trudges past. I must pack away my summer smile with my good weather wardrobe, and accept the solitude until April.
But I have decided, being the rebel I am, to leave the curtains off my sidelites. My private middle finger to the laws of reclusion. If you drive by, and you think my door looks a bit naked, you may see that the light is also on. This is my plea, my friends: Please poke your head in and yoohoo.
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