Where I grew up, anyone who drove by on the the small country road I lived on was a neighbor.  And, if they are neighbors, you wave at them.  Whether I was riding my bike to the covered bridge or mowing the front yard of the 7 acres we lived on, I waved whenever a car drove past.  Most times, they also waved back.  It is how I grew up.  Although I knew most everyone I waved at, waving was one of those things you did 30+ years ago to give a greater feeling of community.

In my DFW neighborhood, some of that still remains, but not so much.  When I first arrived here, about 5 years ago, I was much more likely to wave at a car passing by.  If I was doing yard work, I considered it an obligation to give a friendly gesture to any passersby-whether they walked or they drove.  As my months in Texas have elapsed, the likelihood of a returned wave seems all but reserved for neighbors who are standing in their yards.  Nearly all cars driving by might get suspicious looks.  The cars are either hired help for one of the neighbors OR they are guys in beater pickup trucks driving around on trash day looking for bargains in the “free” pilfering piles.

When I leave the neighborhood, there are a couple of neighbors who are still likely to extend a hand of friendship.  In many cases, their waves are quicker then mine.  One of those neighbors is also responsible for the neighborhood “fat camps”.  Outside her garage, she has a heavy-duty kicking/punching bag.  And, when she is able to draw in the “fatties” or “near-fatties” from the neighborhood, she takes her enrollees through her proven (?) routine.  (She is fairly slender, so she does have some credibility.)  My wife and I have seen her working 5-10 women in her driveway/garage or within a few blocks of her house.  We have tried not to stare during the workouts.  She doesn’t seem like she cuts corners for any of her victims.

With this background information, I now take you to us leaving church last Sunday.  Not only do many churches have greeters, they also have people holding the door for you as you leave.  Our neighborhood exercise junkie was manning (womaning?) the doors on that day.  Not wanting to wait for the narrowing created by having only one door open (their were two doors), I went ahead and opened the other door and worked my way out.  We had a brief conversation.  I confirmed she was the “exercise lady”, and I mentioned to her how we have waved at each other a number of times.  She didn’t deny it.  But, she seems to be “old school” like I used to be.  While my philosophy has deteriorated to the point of “only waving if recognized”, she still takes the much friendlier stance of, “wave and let God sort them out”.

I hope I can reboot my waving.  Regardless of if someone knows me or not, I want people to see my smiling face and easy wave.  (When I take my walks, I will often “dip” my head as an acknowledgement, but waving is almost unheard of.)  I want them to see me and think, “What is different about him?”  I have plenty of time to be stiff after I am dead.  As long as I have the ability to move and engage in friendly gestures, I feel obligated to put forth a minimum effort of kindness.  It doesn’t have to be as gregarious as a hug.  It is a small effort to shrink the city down so it is more hospitable.  For that moment when the gesture is exchanged, a community of two is just fine.

As I paid my weekly visit to a Panera, I turned my observational skills up to the highest level. I was nosier in my observing of the crowd than I normally am.  From the start, it was quite clear this Panera was much more “man-centric” than the other ones I had visited. The tables of (mostly) men went something like this:

• One gentlemen was a Kurt Vonnegut look alike (he looked like he was much more focused then me).  He was focused on his computer.  I think he was trying to make an Amazon purchase.  No new novels seem likely….
• One gentlemen seemed capable of studying (pastor) much more deeply than me-I saw him look up twice as his food was delivered and as an acquaintance said “hello”.  As he stood up to leave, he probably played football/basketball in high school.  Maybe he was a coach?
• Two booths over two men were talking something spiritual (I heard “Holy Spirit”).  As I focused all of my nosy skills into my hearing, I would guess one of them was very involved administratively with the Catholic or Episcopal church.  As with most priest, they look like one of their spiritual gifts was accepting other people’s hospitality.
• A VERY retired couple with walker and cane (he had a US Army hat on.  I would guess WWII vet, but he told me Korea and Vietnam) enjoyed each other’s company.  The husband was more mobile so he placed the orders, got the coffee refills, and still smiled as he awaited  for every word his bride could offer. After I thanked him for his service, he did not hesitate to tell me what a great wife he had.  How she held the family together while he was away.  Brief words exchanged with her revealed she had a German (I think) accent.
• There was a table of four guys (it seemed to be a rather fluid group.  It was as large as 7 and as small as 2) who looked like all early retirees or soon-to-be with their newspapers and a constant hum of sports and current events.  As the conversations warmed up and the wannabes left the table, the core group sounded more like a support group as they discussed work issues, including some problems with younger fellow employees.
• Behind me a couple of tables, was a couple of guys who didn’t give me much to work with.  As the one gentlemen picked his food up, he seemed to give me a rather stern look.  Was I in his normal booth?  Did he not like my t-shirt declaring myself as a visitor to the Grand Canyon?
• The last table was the most interesting to me–a group of definite male retirees all listening intently to one another.  Every corner of the table was filled!  The only one who faced me directly was wearing an orange crocheted hat. (Kind of like a hybrid of the above.)

I considering discreetly (or indiscreetly) snapping a picture of the hat., but I could not image how the conversation would go if I felt compelled to ask.  I didn’t want to pull him from his friends, and even though I did chat with him briefly, the “would you pose for a picture?” question never came up.

As I went for a refill, my muse also needed his coffee refilled as well.

Me:  While backing away from the decaf coffee, “Sorry about that.  Go ahead and jump in.  I have what I need.”

Orange:  “No problem.  Whenever you are done is fine.”

Me:  “Quite a hat you have there!  Did your wife make it for you?”

Orange: “No, my daughter did.”

Me: “That looks like something my wife or daughter might make for me.  It looks good on you.”

Orange: While failing to extricate his coffee cup from the dispenser and spilling coffee on the counter and the floor, “Whoops.  My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Me:  “As long as it is your eyes.  I was afraid when I got older I would lose the ability to pour coffee and talk at the same time.”  I laughed a little and Orange joined in.  (I figured a person wearing a hat like he was wearing MUST have a sense of humor!)

As I gathered napkins to clean up his mess, he wandered back to his seat.  I let the management know about the mess while heading back to my booth.

The hats I found on-line are only a taste of what I really had the pleasure of seeing.   While his hat had a brim, it was not a rigid brim.  The brim seemed to droop slightly toward his nose.  The rest of the hat could not properly hold a firmness usually associated with a hat.  Due to yarns inability to effectively combat gravity, the hat seemed to sag in numerous places.  The yarn, however, was quite adequate to provide a very attractive ball for the top.  A different color of yarn may have given the hat a little more flair, but it was clear, the man wore it with pride.

While I admired his hat as I looked at it through the eyes of the women in my life, I now had an explanation why he could wear the hat with pride and no reservations.  He loved the hands and the heart of the person who made the hat for him.  And, his diminishing eye sight allowed him to spend over an hour at Panera confident he was the most stylish dresser there.

As I spoke to my daughter last night while we discussed an issue of incredible importance in her young mind, I made a similar comment of how age greatly fades the way we view people’s opinions.  She is a mess about a few things, and I tried to convince her how 20-30 years from now the things she is all worked up about will not even be a second thought.  She didn’t seem convinced.  After seeing my orange-hatted friend, I believe I still have some additional learning to do.  Maybe if I am really practicing what I preach, I will schedule the unveiling of my original orange hat for a special event sometime before retirement.  Unless my family also embraces an attitude of “Who cares?”, this special event will have to be a solo one…

As we began the final mile of our walk, we prepared to leave the established sidewalk and move into the less specific paths of the parking lot and park that would eventually lead us home.  The final house to our right was adorned with two bows.  It was not completely clear what their purpose was or why the mailbox and the light attached to the right of the front door needed one.  The bow appeared to be made out of blue netting.  At this point in observing, we were trying to mentally unknot the bundles lightweight material with the hope of developing a theory.  Our first conjecture was a new baby had arrived for the family that lived there.  (Blue was a pretty strong clue.)  A secondary, although remote theory, involved their support for some cause I was not immediately aware of.  Was there an edict out of Austin/Washington encouraging household to put blue ribbon-like knots in front yard to support the IRS or the EPA or Texas Independence?  As we put the house further in our figurative rear view mirrors, our discussion wandered more towards the weekend and what would be on our plates at dinner time.

The next time I walked by, the same knotted loops were still there.  The wind had ruffled them a little more, making there resemblance to bows less obvious.  The city workers continued their construction on the updated flood drainage system.  I cursed their construction equipment for temporarily excavating the area around my sidewalk and forcing me to detour through this part of the neighborhood.  The wind-altered bows were nearly forgotten….

The other morning, as I approached the final stretch of the sidewalk and prepared to emerge out of the neighborhood, I came up on the house again.  This time, a car was slowly heading toward the end of the street with no other destination available but the House of the Blue Knots.  As they slowly turned into the driveway, I slowed my pace.  (I am the type of person that assembles the entire contents of the shopping cart from Walmart of the person in front of me.  After processing all of the information, I make a determination what the next 4 hours of their life might look like.  What are they eating for dinner?  Are they having a party? etc. Often I put a humorous twist on the basket just to make sure my kids/wife are listening.)  As the elderly couple slowly got out of the car, I opted for slowing my pace rather than walking backwards while facing them.  As the back door to the car opened, a medium wrapped gift filled the assumed grandparent hands.  And, unless I have completely lost my grasp of the realities of being a parent, it was likely a couple of outfits that would either be worn only a couple of times because they were too dressy and too hard to put on OR an outfit that was destined to provide a supporting role to an overfilled diaper.

Should I have chosen to assume immediately the blue bow was performing its normal function, I probably would have been home a couple minutes earlier on that day.  I would have thought about some “interesting” subject common to the mind of an adult.  (If I had a normal mind, I might have more insight into what “normal” is like.  I suppose it involves a mind that likes playing by the rules and accepting whatever role it is cast into.  On the outside, I may accept this stereotype.  Inside, I am searching for extra storage space to give my brain extra processing power without allowing my head to swell to substantially.) But, I rather fill my mind with how life is a mystery rather than how it is so mundane.