Hot doesn’t quite describe the weather. Both papers this morning were filled with pictures of people in fountains, at Frog Pond or by the shore. Boston will be in the 90’s-we’ll hit the 80’s. The rest of the week looks the same.
Winter has an intimacy summer lacks. In winter, we sit behind closed windows and doors in our private little worlds and try to stay warm and cozy. In summer, privacy disappears. All those windows and doors are left open so we can catch the slightest breeze. Yesterday I heard a neighbor sneeze twice.
When I was a kid lying in bed and trying to fall asleep, I could hear the TV downstairs and the one next door. I heard neighbors argue in raised voices and mothers yell at kids to settle down and go to sleep. The clink of glasses and the murmur of several voices meant a party. We knew most things about each other, but it never really mattered. Nobody mentioned them. We were friends and we were neighbors.
I know everyone on my street, but we are not close. My friends are at the end of the street and in between are the neighbors with whom I chat. We bemoan the heat, compliment each others’ gardens and wonder when it will rain. I can hear them through open windows, and I suspect they can hear me. Bob’s booming laugh from the house at the end of the street is easily identified. My other neighbors are Brazilian, and they speak to each other in Portuguese. Their kids answer in English. I can hear little boys screaming from two different houses. I wish I couldn’t. Dogs bark all the time. Across the street, Herb and Joanne keep all their doors and windows closed all summer. Joanne says it keeps out the heat of the sun. I think it makes them feel safe.
My favorite time is late at night. It is only then that the houses are quiet. The night birds and the peepers from the pond make the only sounds. I sit in the dark, listen to the birds and watch the fireflies. I don’t make a sound. I don’t want to intrude.
