In this age of high walls and Whatsapp groups, it’s time to get back to the days when neighbours knew each other by name, and knew what was good for each other. By Sean O’Connor
A dream home can be destroyed by a nightmare neighbour. Take the bloke who lives on the other side of my friend’s wall, who speaks to his family in a way that makes us flinch. Or the person with an unruly pack of dogs who makes sure to leave their droppings on my friend’s pavement, and parks across his driveway for good measure. There are some strange people out there, and neighbours are a lottery.
For now at least, none of my own neighbours are the nightmare type. But it takes a bit of effort. Last weekend I crossed the road to ask someone to close his front door while his music blared on a Sunday afternoon. He replied, with an implacable waft of beery breath: “It’s my right.”
“Ja, it is,” I said. “And I’m not even asking you to turn it down. Enjoy it all you like! Just, would you mind closing the door?” It took a gentle little while to melt his resistance, and then things were okay. But it could have gone the other way. He told me his name, and said he’d been there for two years. And I’d never said hello before.
Things were different when I was a kid, when my mom baked a cake to welcome anyone who had moved into the neighbourhood. Even far, far up the road – they all got a cake. We knew everyone around us, and even had their phone number – this, in the days before cellphones. Our family was a walking phonebook: “What’s the Lubner’s number again? That dog of theirs got out again last night!”
We had nearby friends, who remain friends with my mother to this day, separated by thousands of miles, decades later. Of course, there were people that never became close, but at least something cordial existed. We could go and borrow sugar or eggs, and there were people we could turn to for help, and offer the same.
The walls were not high when I was young. Here where I live, they’re still not high – well, at least not all of them, and that is something I love about my neighbourhood. Electrified fencing and razor wire are rare. My suspicion is that these only go up after a crime, to prevent another one.
So far, I’m saddened to say, I’ve lost five bicycles and recently some unrepentant recyclist siphoned away some tools and my lawnmower. I’ve had one burglary in 16 years, touch wood. Yes, we were here, in the house, me and the kids, when it happened, at 6:30 on a weekend morning. Enough said.
Crime now brings neighbours together, instead of welcoming cakes. Fear makes us swop phone numbers. I try and keep my mother’s tradition alive, and at least go and greet the people near me, and take them a bottle of cheapish wine. There’s Howie next door, who feeds my dogs when I’m away, Lucia, the Italian matron who’s just moved in, Steve, who runs the street WhatsApp group, which is mostly about missing cats and suspicious characters seen lolling about, in hoodies with backpacks.
(One of them would win an Olympic medal for breaking into cars. There are also the talented band of folks who strip an entire vehicle of its wheels, left expertly balanced on zen-like piles of bricks and stones. Once, outside my gate, a kombi camper van was balanced just so. That takes real skill, that does.)
Still, I wouldn’t move, not just because I love and cherish my home, but because my neighborhood is intimate. We’re not cut off with automatic garages and high walls. Stuff happens on the street. Kids play, and run through each other’s homes. My neighbours don’t chafe me if my dogs bark, and passersby tell me when I’ve left the gate open.
Somewhere I read that the communities we belong to determine the quality of our lives. I’m truly fortunate to own my home, in a diverse and historical neighbourhood. Pensioners, students, immigrants, young families and loners, here, we’re free to be who we are.
Home is where the heart is. Those nearest you therefore, are closest to your heart. To keep it safe, you need to keep your heart open. So go on, greet a neighbour. Bake a cake, even in your mind. Let the sugar bring you together, instead of the crime.
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