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CHAPTER FROM RAVEN TRICKS
Is There Life in a Gated Community? IS THERE LIFE IN A GATED COMMUNITY? It is said that a home usually reflects the owner’s personality. Mine is in a gated adult community. You know, one of those places where the homes are identical, like cells in a honeycomb, and anyone under age sixty is considered to be sub-adult. Where befuddled residents can find their own place by driving up and down the streets until some garage door responds to their automatic opener. Where pontificating is a pastime among those who want others to understand that they used to be somebody. Where reams of vague rules prohibit activities which “unreasonably interfere with the enjoyment of others.” Where the governing strata council monitors transgressions and drafts admonitions like “House numbers in the wrong colour!” or “Shrub was planted without approval!” You get the picture. Clonesville. And so it is Clonesville, at least on the outside. Not only do the houses appear to be identical, but the residents look alike as well – OLD. A curmudgeon community. The people dress the same and wear the same hairstyles. They tote the same quilted casserole holders to the monthly potlucks and their parties wind down by 8:30 p.m. They even defend idiosyncrasies like ownership of exercise floor spots: “That’s my standing place!” One peevish old goat tried to file criminal charges against a council for perceived infractions of Robert’s Rules of Order. Rigid joints and minds. Newcomers in such a place are viewed with suspicion, of course – a threat to the status quo. I was accorded such treatment and eventually quit wanting to belong because it seemed that my neighbours were a stuck-on-stupid crowd anyway. Besides, I was too fit, too young and too clever for them. Then one day I thought I saw my mother walk by my mirror. Yikes, it was me! I looked like Mom – OLD! (This explained why I was granted those senior discounts without asking for them!) Next I realized that I was losing my marbles because I spent half of each day putting things away and the other half looking for them. When I could not keep up with the other aqua-fitters in our pool, tests showed that my body was failing me too. Good grief, I belonged among these people whether I liked the idea or not, and I needed to learn from them how to cope with OLD. So it was not so much a matter of their failure to accept me as it was my failure to accept them. They took an interest in me when I took an interest in them. They opened to me when I opened to them. They stopped for street-side chats, invited me to attend functions, and offered helping hands. I came to know my neighbours as individuals and they welcomed me inside their homes where their individuality is celebrated. The introvert across the way, for example, keeps things Spartan. Not a picture or a doodad or a doily clutters the premises. Not a throw rug on those hardwood floors, not a cushion on the straight-backed chairs. Not a break in the taupe colour scheme. This neighbour refuses to attend clubhouse activities because “Everyone is so judgmental.” She therefore remains a stranger to most. Her home is a hard place for a person who views the world as a hard place. In contrast, the home of my bubbly, next door neighbour looks like a china shop. Glassed buffets line the walls and bulge with the stuff. Huge clusters of ornamental flowers squeeze into the remaining spaces. Flowers also deck the plush upholstery and pink is the colour of choice. This neighbour welcomes a steady stream of guests and fattens them with her non-stop baking. Neither décor suits me. Wild creatures peer through my forest greens in a multitude of art forms. I have a story to go with each because mine has been an outdoor life. Despite first impressions, we are different personalities in my community and our homes do reflect those differences. It’s a matter of opening doors to discover those differences, because we keep things on the inside here.
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