I sent this to the local paper but never heard back. I sent it kinda late for the holidays so I thought it might not get published. Ah well. I'll just publish it my self.
“The black car is gone again. “
My mother and her mother before her were inveterate
neighborhood watchers. They were not really gossip seekers; they were
chroniclers of the comings and goings of folks.
When mom is home in North Carolina she and I chat on the phone. She
tells me about who is walking a dog and how many birds are at the feeder. I did
not inherit this trait. My view out of a window is rather more visceral. I see colors and shapes and the passing of
shadows. When Mom asks me who owns the black car I am at a loss.
“What black car?”
If Mom is at my window it’s because she’s here for the
holiday visit, which became annual about four years ago. At dinner time I’d call her into the kitchen,
she’d lean toward the window and announce with jubilation,” The lights are on!
The lights are on!” The first few times
she did it I thought she was looking at the lights in the windows of other
apartments and didn’t understand the fanfare.
There is a deck on the back of a building on the other side
of the parking lot. Each year after Thanksgiving it has been decorated with
lights. I guess I had noticed them but never with the joy that Mom took in
their nightly appearance.
Last year, shortly after Christmas, I snapped out of my
window stupor one afternoon and noticed a guy taking down the lights. I half
threw myself out of the window trying to get his attention. “Hey! Hey! I want
to say thanks for the lights! My mother loves them! “
The light guy smiled and said something about having big
plans for next year.
A few months ago my landlord asked me if I knew that Donald
Casper had died. I didn’t think I knew Donald Casper but he showed me an
announcement on which was a picture of someone I recognized.
I learned more about Mr. Casper and his untimely death,
killed by a hit and run driver. I learned that he’d been an active member of
the San Francisco community, so much so that the flag at city hall had been
lowered to half mast after his passing. I didn’t know that guy. Had we met, we
might not have been friends.
When you live in a city you have lots of these kind of
relationships. A neighbor whom you never meet but you admire the garden they’ve
planted in the small square of dirt under a tree. A crossing card with whom you
exchange pleasantries until one day she is replaced by a younger person and you
never get the chance to say goodbye.
Relationships that live like small flashes of light that are only
connected in random moments of reverie.
I am tempted to resolve to be more like Mom and Grandmom. But I know myself. The world outside my
window is something more than scenery but I still don’t know who owns the black
car. Mom is here for the holidays. I showed her all the articles written about
Mr. Casper. We talk about how sad it is. And every night, when she comes into
the kitchen for dinner I see her look toward the deck. She is still keeping track of comings and
goings. For us he will always be the light guy.