Person on the Page

Morning arrives at Lakeside Manors. I step into my athletic shoes, put on my sunglasses, and fail, as I often do, to comb my hair. Then I’m out my front door for a vigorous walk before I start my day.

On the streets surrounding my house, I see others. Some, like me, are out for their morning walks, jogs, or bike rides. Others are watering their flowerbeds or wheeling their trash to the curb. Some are pulling out of their driveways heading for work.

Every time I see someone, I wave.

When I look at my neighborhood, I’m reminded of the song that was so much a part of my childhood: the Monkees’ Pleasant Valley Sunday. Like Pleasant Valley, Lakeside Manors is composed of houses that look pretty much alike. All of them were built within the last 10 years using the same blueprint, with only minor variations in the floorplans. Most of the homeowners are lawn-proud, devoting themselves to landscaping that is both aesthetically pleasing and carefully executed according to HOA standards.

Recently I experienced three major life changes. After being for a decade single, I got married. Then my husband and I bought a new house at Lakeside together, and I moved from the city to the suburbs. Shortly after my move, I retired. I figured that as I enter this later phase of my life, why not shake things up?

While the Monkees’ song declares that all the conformity and sameness of a middle-class neighborhood is soul-numbing, I look around and say to myself, “Wow! I’ve finally made it!”

After living in a variety of places over the years, most recently in a small city, I’m back in the kind of neighborhood in which I grew up, in the kind of house my parents owned. I feel like I’ve found my way back home.

Lakeside is not a retirement community, but many retirees live here, along with young families and midlife folks. The residents are diverse, but we seem to be united by at least one common goal: to keep our neighborhood looking nice.

I’m not naturally one who waves to people. A devout introvert, I view a morning walk as an opportunity to build fitness and maintain health — not as a time to socialize. When I lived in the city, I used to walk alone through an area with a relatively high crime rate. Waving to someone on the street could be inviting trouble. I kept my eyes on the road ahead and my waving arm at my side.

Now my routine is different. When I see another walker, a bike rider, or a young parent lifting her toddler into a car seat, I feel the urge to smile and wave and call, “Good morning!”

Perhaps loneliness drives my urge. Before retiring, I was a university administrator who interacted with many people throughout my workday. I mediated conflicts between students and professors or between parents and the university. I worked closely with faculty and other administrators to solve problems and serve students. After I retired, my days were suddenly quiet and solitary. Perhaps the shock of my new isolation led to my impulse to greet my neighbors.

Now, something about waving just seems right. It says, “I see you there, fellow human, and I am glad you exist.” It says, “I acknowledge your right to share with me the sidewalk, the neighborhood, the grass and trees, our world.”

Waving to neighbors is a noninvasive way to connect with people in our midst. It creates the possibility that a casual conversation might start — “Lovely weather, eh?” — or a friendship might form.

More importantly, the smile and wave may say, “I’m here, neighbor, if you’re ever in need.”

Waving to neighbors is a gentle art. It downplays our differences and raises our awareness of our common humanity.

For an introvert like me, it’s a bold move forward toward building social bonds. But my introverted self is somewhat relieved by the fact that those bonds won’t necessarily form. They may, but they don’t have to.

Sometimes, just a smile and wave are enough.

Cover Image: AI generated by Gemini