Two days later, after return, and I am settling back into the place and space that I call “home”. My Cramoisi Superieur is in full bloom along the fence. Today I’ll cut stems for the house.
We have an established rhythm, she and I: she gets to grow wild and free up to six feet or more - long branches with a cluster of five flowers at the end; I bring the stems inside, a few at a time to enjoy deep pink to red blossoms and a mouthwatering honey, citrus fragrance inside my home. Within weeks, the blossoms spent and the last rose petals gathered from the ground for my bath, I prune the bush back to four feet, just above the fence, and we begin our dance once more.
I took down the remaining Halloween decorations, including spider webs and solar string lights that were strung among the branches. I was disappointed that neighborhood boys had destroyed some of our lights and to discover that one strand of solar lights had also been pulled down from our balcony and cut into pieces. Miss Sandra, my neighbor at the corner who has always welcomed children to play in her yard and often given away her grandson’s old toys - has removed the tree swing that Jamie grew up with - as well as the basketball goal. On the other side of our house, the cable wire has been pulled down from my artist neighbor Scott’s home, to dangle in our driveway. We texted briefly about our frustration and disappointment, his father having had words with a boy who was throwing rocks at their rental car. And my husband Jim and I were saddened that our son is now limited to family outings and playdates with classmates from school.
My eldest son, Stephen, was two when we moved here. Twice he reached high to hand me peppermints, his mouth already full. The first time I assumed that he had some stashed away from his grandmother. But the second time warranted closer investigation. That was a generation ago when a previous tenant Miss Geraldine, lived in what is now Scott’s house. “Where did you get these?” I asked. He took my hand and led me out the front door down the steps and out the gate to meet Miss Geraldine for the first time. We developed a wonderful relationship as neighbors. She had four grandsons and a granddaughter. While she was working at Jackson Brewery in the French Quarter, the kids were running wild. While I was working at the Riverwalk, my three were tearing up my house and listening for the distinct voice of our Saab 9000 turbo under the Saint Claude bridge on Sister Street - the alarm - a sign that they had about two minutes to run home and pull it together as if all had been quiet, and uneventful while I was away.
Once the boys next door were outside throwing rocks and one landed shattering the back window of my car. My children rushed in to tell me and Miss Geraldine was already outside when I made it to the driveway. She apologized and said that her son would reimburse me the cost of the window repair. I didn’t get upset as I covered the window with plastic and said “they’re just being kids.” They paid me back as promised.
Years ago my father and I talked about his growing up poor and living with an aunt and uncle in the country in South Carolina. His brother, my Uncle Charles, was a few months old when their mother passed away. My father was three. And my grandfather, a widower with three children including my Aunt Inez, the eldest, had been drafted for what would become World War II. The baby, Charles, slept in a dresser drawer and the three year old, James, on a pallet on the floor in the two-room house. Inez lived with another relative.
My dad told a story about how he was taught to go to the creek to fetch water with a bucket. His aunt showed him how to gather the clear water from the top without disturbing the sediment below and this became his daily chore - until the day he went to the creek and discovered a snake. The small child dropped the pail and ran back to the house screaming. This was to be his last water run.
When I told my dad about the boys breaking the windshield, he first explained that it was in fact the back window because cars only have one windshield, in front. Then he told me about playing at a construction site, running up the mounds of gravel, picking up and throwing rocks. He said it was fun and the only fun poor kids had access to. Boys throw rocks when there is no other amusement within reach.
We moved on from the broken window. Miss Geraldine’s grandkids, the boys, would accompany me on errands to the laundromat. They helped in my garden. The eldest, Raymond came once with me to the lakefront where he skipped rocks on Lake Pontchartrain. I developed a relationship with their mom and years later, after Hurricane Katrina, when she worked as a security guard at Frederick Douglass High School, I saw her again. I told her that she had a lot to be proud of: all five of her children had grown up and done well. She was very proud of them. Zevi, who broke my window, has a beautiful wife and family - a bunch of kids - and I enjoy following him on Facebook. Miss Geraldine moved out of the house next door, over twenty years ago, to another house in the neighborhood. I used to see her working the polls when I voted, but no more.
Outside I hear rain drops against the metal casing of our bedroom window unit. My garden has needed the rain. The marsh fires have needed the rain.
My coffee is cold now as I consider how the nature of children, neighborhood boys in particular, has remained the same over generations. The difference now is that I have no relationship to new parents and families on our block or a block away. I can no longer call from my landline line to speak with someone’s mother or grandmother. I no longer walk to the homes of strangers to inform them of potentially dangerous behavior - a girl once giving other children green cleaning fluid to drink and telling them it was Koolaid, for example.
That was twenty-five years ago. Decades have flown by! And I hope that this generation of families and children finds its way to a best possible future, like Miss Geraldine’s and mine have.
Times have changed, stolen cars left frequently around the corner. Mine rummaged through in the driveway while I was inside with Covid. I have lived, aged and redirected my attention and energy, no longer desiring to engage beyond three or four neighbors on my block. We continue to support each other by holding packages when delivered and exchanging heartfelt greetings and updates when our paths cross.
With greater financial resources, different communications technology and access, I work, study and interact virtually from home or wherever I am connected around the world.
“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me . . .”
