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The front porch of Rita and Ron’s house had become a no-man’s land. It sat empty, a silent testament to a decade of quiet living.
Their kids had long since moved away, taking with them the noise and laughter that once spilled out onto the lawn. Rita and Ron had gotten used to the stillness, but lately, it felt less like peace and more like a void. The only visitors were the mailman and the occasional squirrel.
"It’s not good, Ron," Rita said one afternoon, looking out the front window. "We're becoming strangers in our own neighborhood."
Ron, always the pragmatist, just shrugged. "We see people at the store. The pharmacy."
"That’s not the same," she insisted. "That’s transactional. We need connection. Real connection."
The next Friday, armed with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies, Rita made her move. She set up two chairs on the porch, a small table between them, and a sign written in her best cursive: "Porch-sitting Happy Hour - Fridays at 4 p.m. - All Are Welcome!" She tied a few colorful balloons to the railing for good measure.
Ron came out, a look of bewilderment on his face. “Happy hour? Rita, it’s lemonade.”
"It's about the feeling, Ron. The happy feeling."
For the first forty-five minutes, it was just the two of them. A car drove by, and the driver honked and waved. But no one stopped. Rita's smile faltered a little. She started to think she’d made a mistake.
Then, a car pulled into the driveway next door. It was the young couple, Sarah and Ben, who had moved in just a year ago. Sarah, a new mom, was struggling with a fussy baby. Ben was holding a toddler with a face covered in chocolate.
“Hey!” Ben called, a look of surprise on his face. “What’s this all about?”
Rita’s smile returned in full force. “It’s happy hour! Come on over!”
Rita noticed Sarah and Ben hesitated for a moment, but apparently the promise of a peaceful moment was too much to resist. They came over, and Rita immediately took the baby from Sarah's arms, settling the little one against her shoulder and patting her gently.
“Oh, my,” Rita said, a soft look in her eyes. “It’s been a while since I held a little one.”
They talked about the neighborhood, the weather, and the joys and struggles of raising a family. When the baby finally fell asleep, Rita handed her back to Sarah, who looked at her with a gratitude that was more than just polite.
Just then, a small dog from across the street came trotting over, his leash dangling from his collar. Its owner, Henry, a widower who Ben had met several months earlier when he moved into the neighborhood, came running after him, out of breath and flustered.
“He got out again,” Henry explained, his face flushed. “I’m so sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” Ron replied, reaching down and scratching the dog behind the ears. "Stay and have some lemonade. It’s happy hour."
Henry looked at the porch, at the balloons, at the three neighbors he had not yet met. He sat down with a smile.
The conversation flowed naturally. They talked about local politics, their gardens, and the challenges of caring for an aging house. Rita noticed Ron, who had been so hesitant at first, was leaning forward, listening intently, and offering his own stories.
The silence Rita had grown accustomed to was now filled with the gentle hum of connection.
As the sun began to set, a few other neighbors stopped by, curious about the balloons and the laughter. Emily, who lived two doors down, came over with a bowl of potato salad. A family with two teenage boys stopped to grab a cookie and say hello.
By dusk, the porch was full of people — all ages, all walks of life. The lemonade pitcher was empty. The cookies were gone.
As the last neighbor said goodbye and walked down the steps, Ron turned to Rita, a thoughtful look on his face. "You know what?" he said. "That wasn't just happy hour. That was a good hour."
Rita couldn’t hide the smirk on her face. "See, Ron? It wasn't that hard."
The porch, once a symbol of quiet solitude, was becoming a beacon of community, a place where they weren’t just living next to people but living with them.
Also hear and read this “parent story” from 2024:
Go to “Fred’s Countdown to Closure (Episode 5 of 5)”
Age: Our greatest asset!
Jim Hasse, ABC, GCDF retired, author of “52 Shades of Graying”
Weekly Stories About Aging Well
“It’s impossible not to love someone whose story you’ve heard.” - Mary Lou Kownacki
Stories about addressing ageism.
Stories about handling ableism.
Stories about thriving during the second half of life.
Accolade: “Love reading your stories. You never disappoint.” - Mary K.
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Yes. This is all about community. For me, it's sometimes hard to reach out to my neighbors. But considering the political situation and the redness of Goodhue county, I'm going to need to try!
It was 2003, and all 10 of us had just sold our homes, mostly in the suburbs, to move into a newly-built condo called Metropolitan Place in downtown Madison, WI.
We knew little about each other, but we had one experience in common: the trauma of relocating and downsizing to accommodate our smaller living quarters.
And we had another force bringing us together: Will, a man with charisma who was determined to make his life-changing move successful. He was dedicated to building a diversified community of neighbors who supported each other and appreciated each other, warts and all.
Our little ad-hoc community within our ever-changing 300-resident high rise condo lasted about 10 years – until about the time Will and his wife, Val, decided to move to Ecuador. Somehow, life at Metropolitan Place was not the same after he relocated.
* When have you felt the warmth of “community” in your neighborhood?