Always Going Home

I'm going back to New York tomorrow for another semi-important gig, and this time I'll be staying within blocks of my old home.  Coming as a disruption in the ongoing process of getting used to my new life in a place that could be a million miles away, this trip is making me feel a little trepidatious.  I'm uneasy about going back to the old neighborhood.  While I have a sense of my obligation to pay calls on the comrades of my past, in most cases I would really rather not.  There is a certain sense in which my anonymity in my new city is a blessed relief.  I know very few people, and very few people know me; so, while it is true that, as Faulkner said, "the past is never dead.  It's not even past," no one here has to know it. 

I recently dyed my hair a different shade from my natural color, and, though the upcoming visit to my old stomping ground did not consciously play a part in my new color choice, I'm now sort of half-hoping that, if any of my old confrères sees me on the street, they will fail to recognize me and will walk on.

(Incidentally, Betty Duffy also has a post up -- as usual, an excellent and thought-provoking one -- about going back to the old neighborhood).

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

I don't feel as if I'm used to living in a house yet.  One of the things I've noticed about being a homeowner is how exposed it makes you feel.  Or, I suppose I should say, how exposed it makes me feel, which I think has at least something to do with my status as a not-yet-licensed driver.  Most people who live in a place like this, whenever they leave their houses, get into their cars and drive away.  I do not do that, and so, as I go out onto the stoop, lock the front door behind me, shoulder my capacious purse (a holdover from my life in New York, where, not having cars in which to stash all the day's gear, the citizenry resorts to carrying it around with them), and get hold of my son, a stroller, a Bronx-style folding stand-up shopping cart, or some combination thereof, I feel awkwardly conspicuous.  My feeling of conspicuousness comes not only from my accouterments, but also from my very presence, standing there on the front porch, walking down the front walk, and taking to the sidewalk in order to go where I need to.  Very few people go out their front doors (after all, their garages are in the back), and very few people use the neighborhood sidewalks as a path leading to a destination that must be gotten to.  Some people use them for recreation:  in the course of the day, I generally see a few dog-walkers, sometimes a mother with a baby in a stroller (never a preschooler, another New York custom), a jogger or two, and one young man with Down's Syndrome who, like me, walks the neighborhood with a purposeful stride in all weathers. 

I'm also not at all used to living in a neighborhood of homeowners.  In order to cut down on the feeling of being exposed, I was careful to hang a clothesline in the backyard in a spot that would be as inconspicuous as possible from the street or the surrounding houses.  The backyard is quite shady, while the front yard gets the sun, so I know I will have to take a deep breath and allow myself to be seen gardening there, visible to the neighbors and to people in passing cars.  In New York, you can make yourself socially invisible by the unspoken code of avoiding eye contact with other pedestrians and even with your neighbors, who generally understand, but in a place like this, where so few people are out walking, it would seem rude to try to avoid conversations with neighbors and passersby.  At times, I've tried to go out of my way to avoid talking to people.  Last week, however, I realized I was being a little ridiculous when, on my way home from somewhere, I could see my across-the-street neighbor (who, incidentally, sold us our homeowners' insurance) doing yard work from half a block away.  In order to avoid having to talk to him, I made a turn instead of keeping straight, walked to the next block, and tried to determine whether there was some secret passageway into my backyard through someone else's.  When it was clear that I would have to hack my way through a sheer wall of hedges, I gave up, and walked back to my own street.  My neighbor came across the street to talk to me, and we actually had quite a pleasant chat.