September 9 is the date set for our block party, an annual late summer event for the past five years, or so, except for two years when there was no block party due to Covid. The dates change but it’s always held on a Saturday around this time of year. I’m not sure of its precise origins or even whose idea it was. I do know that so long as the weather cooperates a fine time in the company of neighbors should be in store.
Between us, Lee was the more active participant in the party planning and staging than I. In fact, on the day of the party, I did little more than carry tables, folding chairs, and ice-filled coolers outdoors, and arrange these items in the middle of the street a short distance south of my building. Other neighbors were doing likewise near their residences. Several folks would volunteer barbecues or cookers.
We never suffer a shortage of would-be chefs willing to volunteer to cook hamburgers, brats and sausages, or hot dogs purchased from a fund that some of us had kicked-started for the occasion. The same fund covers the price of potato chips, crackers, cheese and the like, soft beverages and bags of ice, cups, disposable dishes and silverware and napkins. A few people must feel that its a badge of honor to contribute gargantuan communal dishes of potato salad, macaroni salad or garden salad. One neighbor, a woman who always produces several large pans of warm cornbread, must be operating a small bakery in her home.
And, thanks to mostly anonymous neighbors, there are deserts too numerous to list here. One year, Lee contributed two moist, sweet, and still warm banana breads that neighbors made quick work of with hungry relish, as well as the chocolate chip cookies and brownies that I preferred. Another year, she baked a large lasagna.
Within the safe confines of our block, as demarcated by the traffic horses that the City strategically places overnight at the north and south ends of the street to redirect vehicle traffic, kids run around acting like kids without the need for constant parental supervision. The youngest ones will wait in line to have their faces painted by a local makeup artist, whose own bright green hair makes her easily identifiable. Down the block their older brothers join together for impromptu soccer or American football games. Meanwhile, their older sisters congregate and practice dance steps to the festive sounds of recorded and live music that fill the air until dusk. The music, especially the unmistakable sound of live music being played, never fails to draw curious onlookers to our block.
Quite naturally, the intended principal beneficiaries of the celebration are the children. We use the party fund to rent a bounce house for the toddlers. We arrange for the Fire Department to dispatch a bright red hook and ladder to the celebration. It arrives with great ceremony to a fanfare of sirens, and comes to a slow stop near the corner of a one-way street, completely closing off vehicle traffic. For the next hour or two, the firefighters amiably chat with adults while keeping any overeager kids from clambering onto the firefighting apparatus.
In the days immediately following the block party, I might observe two formerly anonymous neighbors chatting or, at the least, acknowledging each other’s existence in this world with a friendly wave of the hand from across the street. Unfortunately, a heightened sense of community seems to be a temporary post-party effect that dissipates before the first hints of winter begin keeping folks inside their homes.
***
The year that Lee died happened to occur during the height of the Pandemic. An effective vaccine would not become available until the following year. Americans were still getting their heads around the frightening and deadly consequences of an easily transmissible new disease, which, if not entirely without antecedents in human history, nonetheless existed outside living memory. At a time when no one could have predicted the future with any certainty, the notion of hosting a close gathering of neighbors would have been considered foolhardy, even dangerous, despite its outdoor setting.
***
When the block party resumed last year, it was without much fanfare. I don’t recall if I contributed money to the party fund. I did not attend due to a prior out-of-town commitment that same weekend.
However, I’m not sure that I would have gone even had I been free to do so. It would have been uncomfortable for me to participate without Lee.
***
Today, one additional year removed from Lee’s death, I feel ready to get out, get involved. So recently, I not only was a bit surprised, but pleased, to get a text inviting me to help organize this year’s party.
The initial organizational meeting took place this past Tuesday. There was no designated meeting place, only a proposed meeting time. At the designated time I stepped onto my porch. In the relative darkness I could see that several people were gathered outside about five or six homes south of my home. I sauntered in that direction.
As I approached, I counted six people standing around a grassy median separating sidewalk from street. Of course, I recognized Marshall, a professional drummer and music teacher, who organizes the live entertainment for the block party. Over the years, from time to time I will grab an electric guitar and walk down the block to jam with Marshall and a group of his fellow musicians. Now, I could hear him saying to the others present that he had invited his most promising “school of rock” students to perform for the audience, and also had arranged for several of his professional colleagues to perform musical sets. A young Hispanic man, who evidently lives across the street from me, whom I did not recognize on sight, was in attendance with a young woman I assumed to be his wife or significant other. I noticed two school aged girls I assumed belonged with them. I overheard this young man offering to invite his DJ friend, assuring Marshall that the DJ’s broad array of “house” music of the 1970s, 80s and 90s would appeal to folks of all ages. Momentarily, I felt a sharp sting. I asked myself, what about the 60s?
Indeed, until Mary from across the street crossed over to join in, Marshall was the only person I knew. As other late arrivals continued to appear, I recognized several neighbors, but other faces were new to me. I realized that I didn’t know many of these people by name, even those I visually recognized as my neighbors. Worse, as I listened while people greeted one another, engaged in polite small talk about their kids, the schools, their husbands, wives, and jobs, it became plain to me that I was an outsider at this gathering. As more people appeared, I found myself stepping back to make room. Soon enough, I was standing alone at the outer edge of a closed circle of neighbors who seemed to share familiar acquaintance, if not actual friendship. Slowly, I drifted home.
***
I have been thinking about this experience for several days. As I previously have reported here, “with Lee consistently running interference for us, I often was lazy when it came to building or maintaining relationships,” (from “Making an Investment,” published 10-21-21). Thus, for at least one year I have been intending to broaden my social network. The upcoming block party should provide a good opportunity to put my money where my mouth is.
