Yankee Drawl

Posted By jayna on May 25, 2010

We’ve lived in townhomes before. In Georgia, the second time we were there, we had a cute little white one. There was a tiny backyard with a privacy fence, towering Live Oaks and sidewalks through the neighborhood. E and I spent hours walking those sidewalks, day after sweltering day. We never saw a single neighbor outside.

And then, we moved here. A little townhome neighborhood, just the same size. There are fenced backyards, trees aplenty and sidewalks everywhere.

There are also people everywhere. At all times.

The day we came to look at the house, it was snowing. Snowing so much, in fact that the city was shut down and only crazy people from Ohio with 4-wheel drive SUVs were on the roads. And yet, there were people outside. Standing in the unplowed road, gathered in driveways holding beers, and huddled on porches with hot chocolate. They called out to us, told us all about what a great place it was.

It was odd.

Then, we moved in. And it snowed again. And again. There were parties in the road every day of the week we were snowed in. Kids everywhere, with parents chatting.

I chalked it up to the snow.

But it definitely wasn’t the snow.

As the weather has gotten warmer and the days have gotten longer, we’ve stood at our front door and marveled at the people. Everywhere. They chat in the center grassy island, while their kids ride bikes and play. They laugh and joke in front of someone’s garage, tinkering with tools. They bake for each other, they get together for regular dinners, they know where the hide-a-keys are and when everyone comes and goes.

I don’t fit in.

I don’t gossip, I don’t make small talk and I prefer to run to other way when the gaggle of busybodies round the corner. Living here has brought on a whole new experience that I never expected. And, no matter how hard I try, I can’t run from them.

We play in the backyard and the neighbors all come out to say hello, leaning over their deck railings and talking about the flowers and the weather. We head to the front yard and more neighbors stop by to chat. Old ladies walking their dogs pause for idle conversation and mothers with their children migrate to our driveway. We go for an evening walk and barely get around the block before dark after all the gossiping is done.

All this talking is wearing on me.

People.

I don’t really like people.

I like them when I choose to see them. When I go out of my home with the full intent of having some great conversations and seeing people. Not when I’m intent on running the legs off of my three year old so that she will maybe, just maybe, take an actual nap. Not when I run out in my pajamas to drag the garbage to the curb at 7am. And most certainly not when I want to sit and listen to the silence sounds of the girls beating each other playing in my own backyard. A game of hopscotch on our driveway warrants three onlookers, two passersby, four extra kids, six waves from up the street, five dogs and one shared bottle of wine. It’s unnerving.

I don’t belong here. I belong in the middle of nowhere. The middle of the woods. The middle of a giant pasture. The middle of somewhere other than a community as nosy as this. Give me 100 acres. Give me solitude and silence. Give me a town to drive to. Where I can see people. Weekly, maybe.

This city living, it’s wearing me down.

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