I am babysitting a puppy for a somewhat extended period of time. He’s one of those highly energetic breeds; I’ve joked that he’s a postmodernist, as he wants to “tear it all down.” I love animals, but dogs of this temperament aren’t really my speed. So I’ve been taking him on long walks to wear him out, preserving his sanity and what’s left of mine.
In a tweet I can no longer find—because I can never find remembered tweets, no matter how accurate my keywords seem—some wannabe revolutionary complained that too many men were content to marry their high school sweetheart, work in an office for 100k a year, and spend the weekend watching a movie before missionary-style sex. Something like that.
“Wait,” someone in his responses said. “You’re complaining about that?”
That’s gratitude.
When I was younger, I balked at the thought of living in suburbia. This was partly due to my redneck side—my high school friends dreamed of twenty-acre lots on rolling farmland with “no neighbors” to annoy them. And it was partly due to my (wishful) iconoclast side. I didn’t want a husband or kids—why would I want the picket fence? I would live in hip warehouse apartments or move from one European hostel to the next, too fast and free to settle down.
Since my stint in the country with Jamie, I no longer want to mow two acres, let alone twenty. And it’s helpful to have a home base when you’re fifty-something. So I now live among young families and old people and other squares like me in one of those tree-lined neighborhoods on the north side of town.
In my comfortable, work-from-home, online-mediated world—especially post quarantine—I must remind myself to leave the house. I need responsibility, as we all do, to break out of my self-centered torpor. A dog is one way do it.
This morning, as the puppy and I crossed cracked sidewalks, pausing at painted fire hydrants, traversing expanses between green grass, mulched medians, hostas and parrot tulips, I felt that gratitude for the simple things.
Squirrels robbing the feeders, a red-breasted robin, a buzzing honeybee. And then the trees. Flowering dogwoods I swear are twice as beautiful as last year, branches reaching gently toward the eaves, rippled with blossoms of blush pink or white. A tulip tree, its bark flat and smooth, waxy orange flowers hiding amid broad leaves. A Japanese maple straight from a silk chinoiserie, its delicate limbs twisting and twined.
As importantly, those signs of community I thought I didn’t want: another pedestrian with another dog, stopping to allow a friendly sniff, men who wave from doorways, kids shooting hoops in front of an open garage, a glimpse of someone else’s tools, his plastic bin of Christmas ornaments, a covered gas grill, a snow shovel. Water running underground, power quickening the air, cables delivering the whirr of dishwashers and the ballgame playing on the television in the great room.
A collective maturity, which isn’t so bad, after all—the wisdom of loving one or two or five people who aren’t yourself, and showing it, through a cared-for garden, a light-catcher in a kitchen window, a lawn sign announcing a graduation. People learning what takes them outside themselves, finding stuff to live for.
Suburban life still has its moments of simple beauty. It’s nice to hear the little ones in the neighborhood running around, shouting commands to their comrades in some fantastical adventure. During lockdowns, you could count on seeing adults outside in their yards or porches, but now everyone seems to be back inside. Curiouser and curiouser.
I love this. I'm in Australia but it was still relatable 😊