Mending Wall

I have always loved the Robert Frost poem, "Mending Wall". For those not familiar (or those without time to click on the link), "Mending Wall" describes the annual ritual of repairing a New England stone fence between two properties. The narrator views this task as somewhat futile, for nature will just undo their repairs, if not immediately then over the course of the upcoming year. "Something there is that doesn't love a wall," he muses, describing a force which tosses the rocks asunder in an effort to tear it down altogether.

I live in a neighborhood of townhouses, seven sets of 8 homes each. Some of the small back yards are fenced, and there is a fence that borders our development. There are other barriers between neighbors, most of which relate to innocuous things like long commutes.

My husband and I are friendly with many of the folks here. We had the benefit of our neighbor Miss Meg, who made a point of introducing us to the 'old timers' almost immediately after our arrival. Since we are outside on most temperate evenings with our kids, we have met and befriended the other parents. All of this made our move to Virginia from Massachusetts three years ago relatively seamless.

Last week I had the painful experience of learning that my immediate neighbor has been furious with me for the better part of the past eight months. I said something in front of her last Fall, and she misinterpreted my intent, and has been giving me the cold shoulder ever since. There is no space for a physical fence between our properties, but there certainly are barriers between us. I must confess that when I heard her opinion of me, the first thing I wanted to do was to figure out how I could plant something, anything, in the six inch gap between our driveways.

But I can't live like that. While I can respect the physical and other lines that define our spaces, I (like the force that doesn't love a wall) am always looking to reach out and connect. Ignoring the advice of some, I approached her with an offer to talk things out rather than spend the rest of our days here avoiding eye contact with each other.

Today, we had a completely different neighborhood experience. Mid-day, one of the units on our street caught fire. Within moments of spotting the smoke, I was working with people to whom I've never spoken, trying to piece together who's unit it was, whether or not they were likely to be home, and whether or not there were any pets in danger. I hugged complete strangers simply because the look on their face demanded it.

The fire heavily damaged the unit in question, and putting out the fire caused damage to the two adjacent units (which were saved, ultimately, by very effective firewalls). Everybody's good neighbor, the Red Cross, was on the scene immediately, helping affected residents figure out where they'd spend the next few nights, even as offers of spare rooms down the street came forth.

This was clearly a day when fences would just have slowed us down.

It's spring here in Virginia, and we've all started to emerge from our cocoons, such as they are. Come six o'clock, we're hanging outside while kids ride bikes and scooters, chatting with each other about everything and nothing. I love the proximity that a townhouse neighborhood provides. Fifty-six families at different points in their lives; with diverse backgrounds, occupations, skin color and politics.

There's a closeness that comes from the lack of acreage between homes. A place where your son's best friend may live six houses away but that translates into only a few hundred feet. It forces you to confront misunderstandings, if only because avoiding each other is not a viable option. And it makes it possible to stand and watch one of your worst fears realized while literally and figuratively leaning on someone you hardly know.