Cross Alley Conversations

The houses were new. Some of the occupants were not. As a first-time homeowner, I had a lot to learn. I'd grown up in the country without neighbors but always longed for sidewalks and people surrounding me. With only four models in the development, streets looked repetitious and residents tried to distinguish their spaces with dissimilar landscaping.

Nearly every yard was enclosed by a grapestake fence. Inexpensive, unpainted, easily broken through by a determined dog, the fences served their purpose adequately. Separating the back of the fence from that of the neighbor's was a small alley. Trash receptacles were positioned near the back gates and the city's garbage trucks rumbled along the narrow gravel path each week.



Soon after moving into my house, I became acquainted with my back alley neighbors. They were retired, happily removed from New Jersey to Arizona. Already in their 60's, Charlie and Billie were old enough to be my parents but became my friends instead. On many a hot day, I exited my gate, crossed the alley and lifted the latch at their house. No need to call, I was welcome anytime. In retrospect, it is curious that the Thompsons never ventured to my house. Maybe my unruly bulldog stopped them at the fence.

We talked for hours as I sipped iced tea. Their family room was a comfortable place and mirrored my own in design. I listened to Charlie's stories of his career working for Grauman, the maker of airplane engines. Even in retirement, he often received calls to join a National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) investigation after a plane crash. His skills were very valuable, unique.

I learned that some years previously he'd been sent from the east coast to the Long Beach Airport. The purpose of his trip was obscured. He was told to be ready to show a new airplane to a potential customer. Charlie arrived at the appointed time and waited. Hours later, he was still waiting. Eventually a large car crossed the tarmac and stopped near the plane. A man and woman got out and walked toward the plane. Charlie greeted them and immediately recognized both individuals. Ever the professional, he began discussing the airplane's features and answering very technical questions from the gentleman. The woman, dressed in expensive tailored slacks, said little. She sat quietly in one of the seats.

Midway through Charlie's presentation, the unnamed buyer began berating his female companion. She had put her feet, clad in soft moccasins, on the seat. The man was so incensed that he banished her to the car. She left meekly.

Though the deal wasn't consummated that evening, Charlie said that subsequently he would receive phone calls in the middle of the night from a man with an unusual voice. At first, he thought some of his colleagues were teasing him. Very soon he realized that the man was indeed identifying himself correctly and that he simply had additional questions about the airplane. As this story is unfolding, I am intensely curious about the identities of the mystery couple. I could only smile when Charlie told me that they were Howard Hughes and Katharine Hepburn.



In the early 1970's, I worked for a city in Arizona. Through some mismanagement by the administration, the city's financial condition became imperiled. To solve the immediate problem, extensive lay-offs were proposed. Early in the discussions, the extent of personnel losses was unknown and thus each employee worried that his or her name might be on the fateful list.

With grave concern about my future employment, I went to talk to Charlie and Billie. I've never forgotten the advice I received from Billie. She said very calmly, "Imagine the worst that can happen, find a solution for that and everything else is easy." As a twenty-something, I had not yet experienced significant losses in my life. My parents and only sibling were thriving, as were my friends. I thought the worst thing that could happen to me would be to lose my job. Billie gave me a pathway to consider and helped to reduce my anxiety significantly.

Robert Frost wrote that "Good fences make good neighbors." His message was more about separation than assimilation. Today I am most grateful for my good neighbors, fences or not.