Once, long ago, I owned a Buick that genuflected. It knelt down on one wheel in the back yard and stayed there. A penniless student, I was certain that one entire wheel lying perpendicular to the rest of the car was to cost more in repair than I could spare. So, I walked.

It was 2.3 miles to school and I walked it at least two times per day. My neighborhood was what they called tough. People walked by at all hours enjoying themselves, it seemed, as loudly as they could. I just walked alone, sober and quiet, nursing an anger at cars in general, old Buick's in specific, and the people who drove by me.

As the days wore on, I began to notice that I was not alone. There were people in my neighborhood who sat on their porches, it seemed, most of the day. And I was getting to know them.

It started like most things. We nodded. I nodded at them and they nodded back. Some chose to escalate with a wave or a grunt. This creeping familiarity soon had me saying my good mornings or good afternoons. I wondered why they spent their days like that, watching me or whomever walk by their door. Having been sick and seen daytime television, I decided that it was too poor even for the poor to watch. They probably wondered why a healthy white boy was walking instead of riding by their door. Our budding friendships were too fragile for these discussions. We stuck to the weather.

And there was a lot of it. My car had chosen to go into meditation on the leading edge of the coldest winter ever seen in Valdosta, Georgia. Not only did it snow several times, the temperature never reached above 40 for weeks on end. In a town where the car salesmen wear short sleeved dress shirts with ties year 'round, this cold had everyone talking. On the coldest days, my friends waved at me from the chairs they had pulled up to their windows.

I began noticing how sterile the neighborhoods were the closer I got to the college. No one sat on any porch. The porches themselves atrophied. Instead of the wide verandas of the old homes in my neighborhood, front porches shrank into stoops or ornamental decorations. No one wasted time sitting outside.

About that time, I remember a column being written by Dear Abby. She was very upset about what was then a new innovation -- douche commercials on television. Dear Abby was mortified that a douche commercial had chosen to air itself in her living room while she was entertaining her priest. Why anyone would have on a noisy box while entertaining is beyond me. If I had possessed a stamp at that time, I would have suggested to Abby that she move her entertaining out to the porch. It's quieter there. If someone starts douching out in the street, you can run out and toss a pan of cold water on them. Come to think of it, that would work on most TV's, too. One cold pan of water and the TV wouldn't show much of anything.

Spring came and I came into some money and the kneeling Buick was resurrected just in the nick of time. My walks to school were becoming long running conversations and I was having to start out earlier in order to arrive at my class before the bell. With the car, we reverted back to waving, which was much quicker.

When I drive now, I look with longing at the yards along the way. Each with its hidden places known only to the neighborhood dogs and children. Neighborhoods that used to teem with life now stand abandoned by two income households and daycare. My home has a porch. On Saturdays, I like to sit on it.

and over in the corner 
there stands the plaster cat
a nasty look for all, regrets 
the welcome on the mat

white posts and peeling lintels 
the limpid, decorator, flag
the beautiful seasonal wreath 
and the days the days that drag
and drag

no one comes calling, ever, 
the dog, the mailman's sack
the car zooms by the front 
to park around the back

© Copyright 1998, Merrill Guice, All Rights Reserved