Out My Window

I watch. It might be more politically correct and more writerly to say I observe, but let’s face it. I’m watching.

When we first purchased our dilapidated antique house just outside of Boston, I claimed the sunroom as mine. It was tumbling to the ground in its current state and would have to be removed and replaced but there was no doubt that I wanted it. Looking at the house from the sidewalk, the sun porch was on the left, listing and lurching and done, off to the side of the core of the house, separate, yet attached. Not too big, not too small.

And now, I sit at my desk, in the new sunroom on the left, surrounded by brand new windows, framed photographs and books on the shelves and am supremely satisfied.  Sometimes I write, sometimes I study Italian or pay bills.  I think about going to the gym. Often, I merely dream about this and that. Sometimes I leave my desk and settle into the comfy, floral easy chair in the corner with a book and a cup of Irish Breakfast tea.

No matter where I am in this perfect room, with sun streaming in all seven windows, I am constantly and willingly distracted by the comings and goings of neighbors, passersby, dog walkers. I am compelled to watch.

I glance out and see the rugged middle-aged man with the long, red, thinning pony tail walking his two brown Australian shepherds and know it is 7:30am. I have never spoken to him and have no idea what his name is but I do know that he lives in the house one street over with the always changing political signs on the front lawn, signs that inform me that if we were to have a conversation, we would agree on many things. I know that he lives with a woman who is quite stocky with long white messy hair and who occasionally walks the dogs but at a different time, always in a housedress and Birkenstocks no matter the weather.  I am very bad at guessing ages, but I think it is very possible they are mother and son. But maybe not.

One of the first neighbors I met was Dan, who lives behind us, to the side, just behind the sunroom, so that our backyards abut. “You used to have the ugliest house on the block. Not any more!” he yells to me over the fence.  He wears a black leather motorcycle jacket, black jeans and a Vietnam Vet baseball cap. In warmer weather, when I have the windows open, I hear Dan pop open a Bud Light while he sits on his back porch and I know it is 10:30 in the morning. He tells me that he grew up in that house and returned to live there with Carol after the war. “All of us kids used to run through these yards,” he says, “before everybody put up these fences.” I wonder if he is resentful of the fences and somehow blames us for them. But he’s friendly enough and writes down his phone number in case we need anything.

Our house was in a state of disrepair for such a long time that it was an object of intense curiosity during the eighteen month renovation. We got used to people strolling by, often stopping directly in front of the house, pointing and commenting. Kevin stops when I’m in the front yard and we discuss wood gutters. Leola from across the street asks for recommendations for a landscape company to reseed her lawn. A young couple pushing a double stroller and juggling Starbucks cups tells me they think the yellow we’re painting the exterior is too bright. “You think?” I answer. I shrug. “I like it.”

The UPS guy is now my buddy. In the midst of the chaos that renovation causes, I did a lot of online ordering, everything from light fixtures to cabinet pulls to Levolor window blinds, and received a lot of deliveries.  The UPS guy helps me carry the heavy packages into the house and sometimes he stays until I open them because he wants to see what I order. He has been known to question my purchases and comment on the renovations with entertaining banter. He always leaves with a “See ya, Cher!” When I am walking down Mass Ave, if he drives by in his big brown van, he beeps and waves. Once, I was having a pedicure two blocks away and he walked into the salon with a pile of packages. “Cher!” he yells in greeting, making me laugh. “Is that your husband?,” the woman in the next chair asks. I shake off the odd question. “Nah. That’s my UPS guy.” Three years later, he is still my UPS guy. He doesn’t wear a name tag so I don’t know his actual name. I don’t want to know. I like calling him my UPS guy. When he doesn’t have a delivery for me, he’ll still drive by the house, stop in front of the sunroom, and wave and beep if he sees me at my desk. My buddy in brown.  

Michelina rang our doorbell one evening. She explained she lives directly behind us and was having some tree work done in her yard. Would we mind if they trimmed some of the trees on our property which were overhanging theirs and casting shadows on their vegetable garden? As we walk out to take a look, I listen carefully to her accented English. “Michelina, are you Italian?” She tells me she was born in Italy seventy years ago. “Mia nonna era d’italia, troppo! Vicino a Napoli,” I tell her. “Anch’io,!” she replies and flings her ample arms around me. We are bonded. She introduces me to Giovanni, her husband, whose English is not good at all. This works out perfectly for me because he is more than happy to talk me in Italian whenever we are in out in our adjoining yards. He corrects my paltry vocabulary and inconsistent grammar. I love warm summer evenings when I am out having a cocktail on my patio and can overhear Michelina and Giovanni’s rapid fire Italiano banter.

Gordon lives directly across the street. I watch him lace up his white sneakers most mornings on his front porch, stretch a bit, then head off on a jog. After a large snow storm, he always maneuvers his snowblower across the street and clears the sidewalk in front of our house, and we grab shovels and clear off both sets of steps and our front porches. He is a widower, and lives alone in that very large brown house. I always bake him cookies or brownies after snowstorms and he tells me what a great baker his wife was. “Her apple pie was the best.” He sighs. It makes my heart hurt.

I am surrounded by a cast of characters.  I watch, and I don’t judge. OK, maybe sometimes I judge. Like the time the guy didn’t pick up after his dog who left his business on our front lawn and I chased him down the street, shaming him into coming back. Haven’t seen him since.

But, mostly, I just sit back and enjoy the show.