Elissa ElySometimes fate and chance live on the same block. Here is a tale of how turning onto the wrong street 30 years ago led to a 15-year mortgage and a happy home.
We were lost, trying to get back to our small apartment in Cambridge, heading up a one-way road in the wrong direction. It was the close of a discouraging day when every house for sale in Belmont seemed the poorest possible fit. Lost, we turned onto another unfamiliar street.
The afternoon was ending, and so were the Open Houses. A realtor was dragging a lawn sign toward her car. But the house behind it threw out a charismatic glow; its shoulders were back, its chin was up. It stood at the end of a short driveway and there was a porch in front. The porch was kismet.
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This front porch—which is now my front porch—is the most imperative part of my house; an invitation to the world. It holds three Adirondack chairs, and one of them rocks. Dogs and dog owners stroll by; the dog pauses to lift a leg on my flower bed and the owner stops—abashedly, given the circumstance—for some remark he hopes will distract. Joggers jog, cyclists cycle; greetings pass back and forth. Someone throws out a remark which leads to a conversation, which leads to an exchange of names and occasionally a social suggestion. Some of my dearest friendships have come from sitting in the Adirondack rocker, watching someone else’s dog water my lawn.
There were no front porches in my suburb growing up. It was a matter of mathematical proportion: the length of any driveway was proportional to the wealth and importance of its homeowner. We lived in a set-back and porch-less house, much like everyone else. Possibly, the anonymous neighbors on either side did not exist, or they might have been renting from an alternate universe. Someone once mentioned that Walter Cronkite kept a summer home directly across the road — (Gen X and Gen Z, do you know this formative media giant? If not, Google him immediately) — but the driveway was too long for confirmation.
A long driveway is a lonely experience, and I’m sure the house felt the same way. It led to a decision: as an adult, I wanted no more suburban loneliness. I wanted a short driveway and a front porch that guaranteed contact.
Fate decides these things, and Chance nudges them along. That Belmont afternoon decades ago, there seemed nowhere to lay down a tent that opened to the four corners of the road, no place where a stranger could invite another stranger to become a friend. Discouraged and directionless, we took the perfect wrong turn. It was fate. It was chance. The two of them can argue it out themselves for who gets the credit. What I know is that the home I was yearning for suddenly appeared and held out its friendly hand to shake. Hey, it said. Come sit here with me.
Elissa Ely writes about seniors/baby boomers for The Belmont Voice. She is a community psychiatrist.