An Interest Or

It was the neighborhood, and I remember it fondly.

But memories are swathed in pink tulle. All was not perfect, and one of the drawbacks was an absolute lack of privacy.

The absence of privacy extended well beyond living quarters because the adult female population of the block religiously observed the then respected culture of looking out the windows.

Not voyeurs, but neighbors, who honestly believed they were mandated to know, observe and share every iota of information about the other residents on the block.

There was not a segment of information about relationships, health, income of neighbors that remained undetected. There was never a need for a Truth Finder account or any payment required.

I particularly remember the gasp of surprise the October Sunday morning my wedding banns were announced. The window vigilantes were shocked knowing I had not been observed walking down the block with a male for over three months.

I had scrupulously guarded the information that my lover had been residing in Washington, D.C. since July of that year.

Of course, some snooping or interference ended up with good deeds. Whenever the male head of the house was observed home or standing on a stoop during daylight hours, it didn’t take long to realize there was no income. Everyone was alerted to the fact that he was no longer employed.

Casual gifts of home made gravy (spaghetti sauce) would soon be delivered to the family along with “extra” vegetables or fruit that might “go bad. No, the vigilantes weren’t unkind nor ever intended to be.

However, the experience left me with a lingering obsession on privacy that erupted today when a resident of my new home suggested occupants now wear a name tag.

I guess you know my response.