I grew up in a typical, residential neighborhood in West Virginia. They were sixty-year-old homes (your typical three small bedrooms, one bathroom, single-level houses) that were nothing special, except for the people who lived in them. Across the street from us (and still living there to this day) were Clyde and Goldie. Seriously. Those are their names. They met as young barely-out-of-their-teens at the beginning of WWII and are just the sweetest people ever. And on their front porch is just the most awesome swing. We would sit on the swing and talk about WWII and Clyde's years in the Navy, and dish on the neighbors (GOD! Could Mrs. Hubbard's hair get any BLUER?). When I moved to Georgia I envied my mom and dad, and later just mom, and their time on Goldie's and Clyde's porch swing.
The Ty-man and I are currently in our second house since our wedding 14 years ago. And in neither home have we had our own Clyde and Goldie. We've never sat on our porch with neighbors or on the porches of others, sharing news of our lives, neighborhood gossip, and experiences.
Until last night. The HOA President (and my immediate next-door neighbor) and I have a lot to talk about and not just HOA BS. We both have interests in science (Me=physics, Her=chemistry), we read the same books, we have similar political philosophies, and we laugh about the same stupid crap. When I noticed that she and her husband were on their porch, I just damned the torpedoes and went over. And Mr. HOA President asked, Hey! You wanna beer?
And I drank that beer. I talked and commiserated and laughed and so did they. We sat on their front stoop and just were.
It wasn't a porch in West Virginia. There wasn't a swing. Neither Clyde nor Goldie were there. And we didn't talk about WWII or Mrs. Hubbard's blue hair. But that moment last night was just as good as all the other moments from my fading memory.
And I can't wait to have more.