Over the backyard fence

This neighbourhood astounds me. At times I feel as though I've travelled back to a quieter, more considerate time in history when the reality is, it's the same busy, hectic time as everywhere else in this country. It feels different somehow. It's a place where people take a moment to chat with you over the front porch rails. It's a place where you wouldn't think to pass someone on the sidewalk without a nod or a hello, whether you know them or not.

When I glance at the houses on our street while I'm out for my daily walk with the boys, I don't see bricks, I see gestures. On the corner is Ray and MaryAnne's place. MaryAnne is a senior who, even in the dead of Winter, just days before her hip surgery, hobbled across the street, leaning heavily on her cane, to drop off a plate of freshly baked tea biscuits and homemade jam. Next door is Gina who buys packages of cookies just for Sam and Ben and runs into the house the moment she hears their chatter so she can be ready for them with hand outstretched. There's Elaine who baked Terry a strawberry pie for his birthday last month and Vern who supplied me tomato seedlings that he started in his mini greenhouse. A few doors down is Angela who cuddles and kisses the boys each chance she gets and who, through her son who also lives down the street, gave the boys the swingset they play on each day.

And then there's our next-door neighbours, Gary and Laurie. Gary, who passed on bags of cement from his shed for Terry's posts and Laurie who shares her own garden bounty with us. Just yesterday, she passed a bucket full of zucchini she picked moments before, over the backyard fence. We meet often over that fence; Terry and Gary tossing jokes back and forth like a volleyball and Laurie and I lamenting and discussing the joys and frustrations of our gardening endeavours. We take turns chasing the boys who are constantly trying to escape into their yard to see them.

Saturdays will inevitably find all the neighbours wandering outside to gather on this person's porch or this person's lawn to shoot the breeze about everything or nothing at all. By unspoken agreement, we trail away at some point, back to our own yards and porches, only to reunite again once children are tucked away in bed and dinner dishes scrubbed.

This is the good life. This moment, this home, this town. I love this town.