Peering furtively through your window like Gladys Kravitz to spy on your neighbors is typically frowned upon. On Westervelt Avenue in the 1960s and ’70s, no one peeked from behind their curtains like this. No, they came outside and openly watched whenever something of interest was going on. This behavior was accepted and often even expected.
Some events were “come out and look” invitations in themselves. For instance, one Saturday afternoon a water main broke. It was part of a new line that led to the house of our neighbor two doors down. Surrounding neighbors gathered in commiseration while others watched from windows, porches, and stoops as water rushed up through the sewer grates and flooded the curb. People from down the block came too, curiosity aroused at the sight of a small river coursing through the street. The crowd sustained their watch for the entire time it took for the city to be notified and the water turned off. Then, excitement over, the watchers returned to their ho-hum ordinary day.
Sometimes the watchers were welcomed; in fact, it would have been disappointing if no one had come out to create a spur-of-the-moment honor guard of sorts.
The sight of a limousine pulling up to a house on a Friday evening in May meant one thing—the senior prom. Word of a limousine on the block spread instantly, bringing the neighbors out: one still clutching a dinner napkin, another wiping hands on a dishtowel. Kids wearing cookie crumbs and milk moustaches came running, along with teenage girls waving fingernails wet with polish or with half their hair done up in rollers.
All eyes focused on the young man in the stiff components of a tuxedo unfolding legs and arms from the dark recesses of the back seat while grasping a small white florist’s box. They watched as he climbed the stoop and pressed the doorbell, then disappeared inside. And then they waited out there in the street, waited and watched, watched and waited, until, after an unbearably long time, the couple emerged.
In her gown, the girl appeared as we had never seen her before—not in a school uniform, not in shorts or jeans, not even in a Sunday skirt. This typical teenager was unrecognizable in her formal dress and skinny high heels, her hair and makeup specially done up.
Often two or three other couples would then climb out of the limousine for a group photo. The boys looked good all spiffed up in their tuxedos, hair slicked back or at least controlled and tidy. But the girls in their pastel gowns of taffeta and tulle created a beautiful array. On their wrists or at their shoulders, a spray of pink roses or a delicate white orchid breathed life into the glamour.
Picture-taking over, the couples would duck back into the limo, taking great care not to rumple their finery. Slowly the limousine would roll away, shrugging off the hovering boys who had hung around solely to gawk at the car.
Those of us still awaiting our proms could only imagine what the night ahead would be like—as magical as Cinderella’s ball, that much we knew.
Another event that drew neighbors from up and down the block was a wedding. Again, the signal was the limousine pulling up to the curb. Again, a crowd of neighbors, pressed together and jostling for the best view, would gather in the street outside the bride’s house. Showing great restraint, the watchers kept the sidewalk clear for the bride and her bridesmaids.
Women in the usual Saturday attire—housedresses or ragtag housecleaning clothes—stood with arms crossed. Kids often came to watch, but men—never. This fashion event and lump-in-the-throat moment of nostalgia and sentimentality was a woman’s thing, for the great-grandmothers to the youngest observers.
Boys gathered too, but again because of the limousine, not to fill their eyes with the rare sight of ordinary people dressed like royalty, or to reflect on the passage of time as this young woman, only yesterday a kid popping tar bubbles in the street, ventured off into marriage. The boys turned wheelies on their bikes as they pestered the driver with questions, left dirty handprints on the limo (which the driver patiently polished off), and begged for an inside view before the driver shooed them away.
Excitement grew when the bridesmaids stepped out of the house in a burst of color—typically shades of blue or pink—flowing chiffon, and floral bouquets with trailing ribbons. They processed like ethereal beings to the limousine, signaling that the star of the show was not far behind. Then the bride emerged, a vision in white satin, escorted by her father. As they paused for a photo, it was clear that the crowd felt only warmth and happiness for the bride, judging from the discreet wipe of a tear, murmured endearments, and a backdrop of oohs and aahs. But one of the women came dangerously close to heckling at one of these watches, yelling out in her angry-crow voice, “Sure, she’s happy now, the bride. Just wait. She’ll see.”
Heads turned…or shook in disbelief. The girl standing next to me whispered fiercely, “Just because she’s unhappy doesn’t mean everyone is. I’m going to have a happy marriage.”
Another event brought the people outside, but this kind of watch was a somber and respectful one. It was the local custom when someone passed away. On the morning of the funeral, immediately following the church service, neighbors kept a silent vigil as the funeral procession drove slowly passed the deceased person’s house, a last farewell. The cortege then moved on to the cemetery and the final resting place.
© Barbara Cole 2020. All Rights Reserved.