I'm not a particularly good neighbor. Oh, I don't have wild parties with loud music and men urinating on other people's grass (as if!) and I don't allow my dog to defecate on lawns other than my own. But I also don't throw barbecues or attend block parties or buy Avon from the lady who nonetheless continues to put her fliers in my mailbox. I know a few of my neighbors by name, but only a few. I throw up my hand and say hello on occasion and otherwise try to stay out of people's way, as I hope they will stay out of mine.
The recent snowstorm made my residential street virtually impassable. Saturday evening I attempted to leave my house to attend a friend's party and found myself hopelessly stuck in the deep, rutted snow. Out of nowhere, one of my neighbors - a man to whom I have never uttered a word - fell in behind me and started pushing. Within moments, another neighbor got out of his condo-sized pickup truck and assisted until I was on my way. I rolled down my window and shouted my thanks, but they were already retreating back into their own homes and separate lives.
This simple act had a profound effect on me. I came home Saturday night, got into bed and just started to drift off to sleep. About two a.m., I heard the unmistakable sound of spinning tires out on the street. When the sound continued after a few minutes, I threw on clothes and went out to help. Another neighbor was already assisting and we pushed whoever was in the car out of the rut and onto the larger, plowed thoroughfare.
Sunday dawned bright and snowy. I shoveled my driveway,
again, and decided to do the same for my neighbor next door. She apparently left for the weekend and her driveway was untouched since the beginning of the snowstorm. I knew this would be no small task as, at that point, we had about a foot of snow. But, she's an older lady who lives alone with her dog and I didn't want her to have to tackle the chore herself. An hour later, drenched in sweat, I came in tired, but satisfied.
Around three o'clock in the afternoon, the city plowed our street. I was thrilled! I didn't mind one tiny bit that it meant marching back outside and dislodging the packed snow and ice from the end of my driveway -- at least now the road was passable! The city plow driver drove past again and I stopped shoveling long enough to smile and wave and flash him a "thumbs up." In exchange, he turned around and used his plow to clear my driveway. I was astounded! It's entirely possible I whooped for joy.
As I was digging out my neighbor's now-buried drive, the lady across the street backed out of her driveway, not realizing the mound left there by the recent plowing. She and her father became hopelessly hung up in the morass. I walked over with my trusty shovel and started digging them out, joined within minutes by two other neighbors. The lady said, "well, this is one way to meet your neighbors!" and we all laughed. It took us all about twenty minutes of digging and pushing, but we finally dislodged their car and got them on their way.
Wikipedia defines a neighborhood as: "is a geographically localized community within a larger city, town or suburb. Neighborhoods are often social communities with considerable face-to-face interaction among members." Until now, I never really gave this much thought. That may just change.
Oh, and just how much snow was there? I took this photo just after noon on Saturday, before the snow had even stopped:
