Front Porches and Summer Nights
Finding a sense of community
I remember lying in bed on warm, summer nights, falling asleep to the murmur of the voices of the adults sitting on the front porch.
Sometimes, I would listen to snippets of conversations. Talk of the ongoing Vietnam War, of the Red Sox and the Yankees, of the high school kids who refused to get haircuts.
My Dad and his brother playing cribbage, progressing pegs along the board: “fifteen-two, fifteen-four . . . “
My Mom empathizing with the next door neighbor, whose elderly mother was failing.
The adults in the neighborhood gathered on front porches on summer nights. There was a sense of community, of shared concern for the events of life.
Today, I rarely hear voices from front porches. Everyone is indoors.
“No front porches. My uncle says there used to be front porches. And people sat there sometimes at night, talking when they wanted to talk, rocking, and not talking when they didn't want to talk. Sometimes they just sat there and thought about things, turned things over. My uncle says the architects got rid of the front porches because they didn't look well. But my uncle says that was merely rationalizing it; the real reason, hidden underneath, might be they didn't want people sitting like that, doing nothing, rocking, talking; that was the wrong KIND of social life. People talked too much. And they had time to think. So they ran off with the porches.”
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
It takes some effort to get to know one’s neighbors today. Most of us never form strong community relationships.
I was talking to a neighbor about this yesterday. We are both walkers and gardeners, so we are outdoors often, and we know our neighbors. The slower pace of walking allows us to notice the hydrangeas, the birds, the babies in strollers, the dog walkers.
It’s a world that those who go from their homes to their cars and back again don’t see in the same way.
Those who spend their non-working hours inside, glued to screens, know their neighborhood as it is presented to them on the local news. They hear of a house fire, a hit-and-run, or the latest crime statistics.
They stay inside. The streets aren’t safe. The people of their neighborhood are no longer friendly neighbors, but “others” who you just can’t trust.
“A stranger is shot in the street, you hardly move to help. But if, half an hour before, you spent just ten minutes with the fellow and knew a little about him and his family, you might just jump in front of his killer and try to stop it. Really knowing is good. Not knowing, or refusing to know is bad, or amoral, at least. You can’t act if you don’t know.”
― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes
Get to know your neighbors. Form a book club, go to the local library, or get together with a few neighbors to walk or share a cup of coffee.
How can we hope for peace among nations when we are afraid of the people in our own communities?