For a couple months this fall, my default answer to the various forms of “What’s exciting in your life?” was “well... we’re building a garage.” It is a testament to both the monotony of Covid times and the lowered expectations of old age that I was able to deliver this answer sincerely. This was a project we knew we’d undertake at some point when we moved into our house 5 years ago. The final third of our postage stamp backyard was occupied by a mishmash of messiness: a gravel parking pad with wildflowers and weeds as high as an elephant’s eye, part of a retaining wall, a “shed” that the previous owners crafted out of spare parts and wishful thinking, and the piece de resistance: a massive wooden gate, bowing precariously out toward the alley at a 30-degree angle. The gate was held closed in the middle by two wooden crossbeams that slid into slots. This is the type of gate they would bar at a lonely frontier fort in an old western movie, if that gate was also drunk and tired.
All in all, this part of the yard represented what might optimistically be called an “opportunity for improvement.” Our beautiful 120-year-old home presented no shortage of projects, so this one languished on our “get to it someday” list. Then came a global pandemic. We suddenly found ourselves spending a whole lot more time at home, lucky enough to have steady employment, and valuing outdoor space more than we ever had. That unruly back third of our yard started to seem a lot more important. After several years of benign neglect, its time had come.
So we had a garage built. That’s not totally accurate. We had a garage-port built. Also known as a California Carport (if you’re trying to sound fancy) or a hoosier gazebo (I made this one up), this was a covered structure that was open on three sides, much like a pavilion you’d see at a public park, but had a garage door on the alley side that totally enclosed the yard. It did what we needed it to and was a heck of a lot cheaper than a full garage. We’re not fancy folk, so we fantasized about having it do double duty as a covered patio when we weren’t parking on it, a shaded refuge in which to enjoy a can of Busch on a humid July afternoon. Plus, the whole construction effort was therapeutic. During what felt like an interminable period of running in place, the project offered a refreshing sense of forward progress.
And it was nice, for sure. According to Zillow, a site I definitely don’t check obsessively or anything, our house saw a bump in value as soon as the construction permits were awarded. More importantly, the project wrapped up just in time for the first really cold days of the year. It was a luxury being able to preheat the car and skip scraping before bringing our toddler son to daycare. Coming home from work and being able to see the light from the warm kitchen as I pulled in from the alley felt cozy, welcoming. The garage door closing behind my car definitively marked our space. It was a comforting change of pace from fighting for a street spot and trying to remember street cleaning days.
One day, I was pulling out to run an errand when our next door neighbor Linda flagged me down from the alley. Linda is a retiree grandmother who has lived in the duplex next door since well before we moved in. We have a good relationship with Linda, but we aren’t especially close. It’s a “have each other’s numbers and text occasionally about neighborhood happenings” relationship, not a “split a bottle of Chardonnay on the back deck” relationship (although I’m ready to take that step if you are, Linda). I was a little surprised to see her in my rearview standing in the alley and waving me down, but I stopped the car and got out. I feared this was some kind of emergency--her car wouldn’t start, or a break-in. Instead, I found her holding a wrapped present. “A Christmas gift, for your son.” Paul, our son, would always wave to Linda and her dog Free when our paths intersected out front.
I thanked her profusely for the unexpected kind gesture and then hopped back into the car to complete whatever errand I was heading out on. Later that day I explained the sweet gift and the strange interaction to my wife. Her response: “That’s funny, Sam stopped me on the way to the park because he had a gift for Paul.” Sam, also a retiree, lives a few doors down from Linda. Sam is a fixture on our block. He can be found sitting on the front porch of his shotgun bungalow on any remotely nice day. He has a rotating crew of older gentlemen who often join him, pulling up lawn chairs or sitting on the front steps, enjoying a beer. We don’t even have each Sam’s phone number, but we always chat with him as we pass by on our stroller walks.
Neither of these people have ever set foot in our home. I’m not sure they know our last names. Our relationship is one of hundreds of small moments--just waves on a walk or small talk while unloading groceries. No single interaction seems like much, but through all of them runs an undercurrent: I see you, I know you, and yes, I care about you. The accumulation of all these small moments is a pretty good definition of community, which is no small thing. It’s enough to make someone go out of their way to purchase and wrap a Christmas gift for the toddler who passes their house on the way to the park. It struck me that these were the moments I was now missing with my convenient few steps from garage to back door. Cozy, safely ensconced on my own property. Separate.
We had snow during the day today. I got home from work late and, seeing the couple inches of accumulation on our back path from the garage, felt terrible knowing that I hadn’t salted or shoveled the front sidewalk all day. As soon as our son went to bed I grabbed the shovel and headed out the front door.
Stepping out into the crisp and quiet night, I found that an anonymous neighbor had already shoveled our front sidewalk. A straight band of cleared cement cut through the powdery snow, stopping, like a toddler on a walk, at each home along the way. It looked beautiful.
