By Sheri Reda

Yesterday, on my way home from the Metra stop at Ravenswood, I ran into a neighbor I have seen before along that route, a neighbor I don’t know well because he has been mildly reviled from the day he moved in.

It was never entirely his fault. He bought into a contested space. His house was once a beloved old frame three-flat—back when the neighborhood was the half-forgotten grounds for worker cottages, two- and four-flats, and one large kitschy, Alpine-frame house that belonged to the German-American man they called “The Mayor of Lincoln Square.“ Not that anyone had heard of Lincoln Square. 

Gordon owned the house back then. Gordon was an old, old man, who hung out on the small front porch, watched his tenants’ kids at play, helped neighbors with groceries, and asked them for a hand with hard-to-open spigots and the like. Gordon had promised the building to his tenants—the ones with the three kids. “When I die,” he’d said, you get first chance to buy the building.” He told his son as much, and so we knew not only whom our neighbors were but also whom they would be for some time to come.

But then the neighborhood got hot. The pedophile’s creaky house came down and someone built a house worth half a million, a house that went lot-line to lot line and eliminated the fenceless rounds in which the children on the block used to run and play. The new people had kids, too. But they didn’t miss the old open lands because they’d never known them—and also because they only left home to commute to Latin School and back. They didn’t really come outside.

Now developers were canvassing the neighborhood, and smart money was looking for deals. A man who already owned a fine, brick home on Wilson—a block to the north—he had his eye on our street. His very young wife liked our old trees and our 34 kids running free. So when Gordon died, he told the man’s son, “Whatever the tenants offer you, I’ll give you twenty grand more.” the son took the deal. The neighbors had to go. For the next two years we watched the three flat become a home for cheap laborers, who transformed the crooked old three flat into a fine, upstanding home.

It looked like it belonged, but it didn’t. Because they didn’t. After six months in the new home, the young wife decided she wanted a yard. Her obedient husband moved the family out to Norridge, providing his bride with a yard and a neighbor to run away with. The newly grand house went up for sale, advertised by its third-floor skating rink and sky-high back porch, and a new family bought it for close to a million bucks. No way could those old tenants enjoy any right of return.

The new, new people moved in just before the weather turned cold. They did have a daughter, who stepped outside now and then. But she was doomed by kids who still missed the old kids, and a mom who was never home to connect, and a dad who yelled at the kids next door when they stepped on his lawn to catch a football. No one invited him over for a beer, though most likely, a beer was just what he needed. Instead, we all obeyed what seemed like his unwritten message: Leave me alone. We left them alone.

Some time during the winter, someone heard that he got cancer, was going through chemo. But no one knew what, if anything might be appropriate to do, and maybe no one cared. So we did nothing. The neighbor got sickly yellow and skinny, and then he turned flesh colored again, and then he started walking two dogs, and so, we assumed he was OK.

He lived his life, we lived ours. Fifteen years can come and go when nothing happens in all that time.  And so it was fifteen years later when I first did more than wave a dutiful morning hello. I was walking home from the Ravenswood stop, remember, and he was cleaning out his garage. We murmured hellos. He smiled. A nice, normal smile.

Next time, the next week, we murmured pleasantries about the weather. Same thing the next week, and the one after that. On the fourth or fifth week, he asked how my kids were doing. How old were they now? What were their interests? For the sake of etiquette, I did the same.

Pretty soon, we were happy to see each other. Instead of murmuring about the weather, we exclaimed our disgust or delight. Instead of sharing outlines about or lives, we began to share plans:  My son was going to New Zealand in Spring! His wife had a client there—they went there all the time! His daughter was interested in the environment, and they were worried. They preferred finance. He hoped my daughter would find the job of her dreams—was there any way he could help?

Last week, I me my neighbor as usual, and he was packing things away. “For the season?” I inquired.

No, for another short New Zealand trip. They were going to the South Island this time, he said. I hadn’t even known there were two. We can tell you about it, he offered. Before I knew it, our families had a date for cocktails. Our modest house, our cheap-ish wine, their fabulous experiences and somewhat clueless good will. And we will finally know our neighbors.

 Something about this story in which nothing happens makes me panicky and angry and wits-end agitated. How can I have lived kitty-corner from perfectly nice people for fifteen ears and never have met them for a glass of wine? How can we have all let our neighbor suffer through cancer without our help? Why do we accept—accommodate—participate in—this encroaching isolation when we could have friends and allies (or at least have a reason for regarding people as enemies)?

I live in the city and finally talked with this man because I walk by him every day. What about those who drive nearly everywhere? How can we rescue ourselves from our self-created hell of judgment and isolation? I think our democracy may depend on it.