Desperately Seeking Community

When we moved to this subdivision, some 30 years ago, my friend and I were the youngest on the block, surrounded on either side by neighbors who were 20 years older than us. They were friendly, almost too friendly to the point of nosiness, but I enjoyed our conversations over the fence. Now we’re the oldest ones on the block and I long for that camaraderie.

While we’re not exactly shunned, no one seems interested in our lives. I’ll go out of my way to ask the young couple next door about their new baby daughter, exclaim how fast she’s growing. They’re polite, even friendly up to a point, but it’s obvious that they’re not interested in the lives of two old women. The family across the street totally ignores us, not even bothering to wave when we’re both out shoveling snow or gardening. Another house has become a vacation rental, while next door a good friend and her husband just moved to a different city.

I strongly feel the loss of community–one where we connect to others around us and where we’re not alone. I grew up in a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone else. Walking down the street, I’d wave to Mrs. Ross, see Mr. Fox in his backyard gardening, stop across the street to see if my friend Sally wanted to play or next door if our other friend Darlene wanted to join us. My parents were friends with most of the adults on the block and frequently socialized with them. That was the era (the 1950s) when people dressed up in their finest clothes to drink martinis in the bars that everyone was building in their basements.

In a two-block area, I never lacked for someone to play with or children to babysit. The boys played softball in the school fields beyond our houses. My girlfriends and I gathered together to play board games, ride to the swimming pool or walk to the ice skating rink in winter.

But when we all grew up and left home, my parents moved from the big house where they raised our family to another neighborhood where they didn’t know anyone. Maybe by that time the culture had shifted or no one was interested in a couple in their 70s. My parents complained to me that people weren’t friendly. When my father asked the man next door, in his 30s, to do him a favor every morning when the neighbor went for a jog—to throw his newspaper from the sidewalk to the front door—he refused.

I can see why my parents finally decided to move to a retirement community. They made friends quickly and enjoyed meals with their new friends. My father, a consummate musician, was delighted to play the piano for an appreciative audience during happy hour.

Today, in this world full of divisiveness, where an increasing number of people eat alone or spend all their social time online, it feels like community is needed more than ever, whether it’s among neighbors, spiritual or church groups, or book clubs. Our generation was lucky to experience togetherness when we were young.

So maybe more than other age groups, we appreciate a shared world, even if it’s something as simple as hiking with other seniors, playing cards at the senior center, or joining others for a yoga or tai chi class. When I shop in the grocery store, I notice it’s we older ones who nod to each other or even, amazingly, talk to each other (in simple phrases, like “did you notice the price has gone up on this cereal?”). I have a friend who, when she swims in the local pool, starts conversations with others. When friends and I go for a hike, we make sure to greet everyone who comes down the trail, even when they have their earbuds on.

And now friends are starting a small movement by protesting together. It’s these small actions that can make a difference, that hopefully might lead to something bigger, a society composed of people who want to be together and help each other.

Can we start a crusade? An uprising of community? We have nothing to lose by trying.