I grew up in the Hanscom Park neighborhood in Omaha on a street full of neighbors who had lived there together for 173 years it seemed. These neighbors apparently were immortal and had been around since before the invention of the brick. They were telepathically linked and could summon fruits and vegetables from the ground at will and could deliver information to my mother about what I was doing before I was done doing it. I couldn’t get away with anything. It was a mystical (and sometimes frustrating) place to grow up.
I recently read an article on the Facebook page for “I Survived South Omaha.” (It’s a good read so check it out here.) The writer talks about her experience growing up in a South Omaha neighborhood and how it was shaped by her “Porch Ladies.”
In the post, the writer, Janice Golka talks about her upbringing in the south Omaha neighborhood where she grew up on 50th Street. She talked about how the women in her neighborhood were always outside on the porch or hanging out laundry. She lamented the loss of one of the women in her neighborhood and talked about how this treasured part of her childhood is becoming a thing of the past and is fading away.
The article is touching. I related heavily to it. I, too, felt the lament for the loss of this part of a neighborhood. I thought about how my own son would miss out on this memory. I got a little depressed. “What’s the world coming to? Where have all the Porch Ladies gone?” I asked with my fists shaking to the sky.
Then the clouds parted, and I had an epiphany. My son lives in a neighborhood full of Porch Ladies. No they don’t sit on a porch all day. No they don’t gossip over the back yard fence. But there is a real network of neighbors in Minne Lusa that knows, cares about, and watches out for my son.
As my son and I take walks or play in the yard, he regularly waves to Miss Beth or Miss Diane. He stops to talk to Miss Roz or Miss Eileen. He’s been to movie night twice with ladies from the neighborhood. He blows bubbles with Pastor Liz and bumps fists with Pastor John.
At the Minne Lusa House, my son has a drawing of Miss Sharon on the refrigerator. Miss Sonja waves every time she walks by with her dog. Liam knows Miss Shelly delivers the mail about the same time every day and he can run over to her house any time he wants a popsicle. Miss Katie and Mister Ralph, Mister Vern, Mister Nick and Miss Debbie, Miss Amanda, and the list continues.
There are many more adults in the neighborhood who know my son, “Thirsty” as they call him. I feel pride and security knowing that my son will grow up with a sense of neighborhood, of community. He will know that he can trust his neighbors and that he is part of a group of people that extends outside his own door. He lives in a place where people do things for each other, socialize together, look out for one another.
Now when I read the post about the loss of the Porch Ladies or the death of the idea that there are people looking out for each other, I don’t feel the lament myself. I feel like, “Man, people should move here. This is where all the Porch Ladies are.” I know that when Liam/Thirsty, who is 5, grows up to be 10 . . . 13 . . . 16 . . .I will know what he’s been doing before he’s finished doing it. He will look back at Minne Lusa as a mystical (and probably sometimes frustrating) place to grow up. And I’m OK with that.
Thank you, Minne Lusa. I owe you one!