Don't wave at the blind guy

The neighbors see me walking up and down the streets, five miles every day, more than the local sheriff drives around here.  I sure couldn’t have done this year round in New Hampshire.  The neighbors tell me I should join the Neighborhood Watch. 

I still haven’t joined.  Mind you, I don’t have anything against Neighborhood Watches. They’re great. They give the neighbors something to do, they sometimes throw parties with pizza and guest speakers (e.g., local sheriff), they protect your home from vandals, and sometimes they give you a nice banner to hang out front—like the fire brigade signs that told colonial volunteers that a house was “insured.” 

But, I figure, if I see a truck pull up to my neighbor’s house and start uploading electronics, I’ll speak up about it.  Or if a nice, buff young man with a Vermont license plate and a business logo on his truck moves into the rental property next door, I’ll go over and introduce myself.  With homemade cookies.  The Neighborhood Watch lady across the street, somehow taking him to be a squatter, instead calls the cops. Another Neighborhood Watch lady took it upon herself to swat our lawn guy’s truck with a rolled-up newspaper, perhaps thinking this might compel him to move it.  When she escalated to threatening him with the cops, he pulled out his badge and calmly pointed out, “I AM the cops, ma’am.” Like everything else, too much of a good thing can come back to bite you.

While walking around the neighborhood, I wave. This is almost always a good thing. Oncoming cars usually pull politely out of your way when you’re walking.  I think these cars deserve a thank-you wave. 

There are several varieties of waves with which I entertain myself.  It matters neither whether I know the drivers nor whether they wave back—though I admit to being disappointed when they don’t even give me the finger-lift off the steering wheel in return.

There’s the Parade Wave, that slow, open-palmed, side-to-side maneuver usually reserved for the Grand Marshal or Little Mermaid atop the “Under the Sea” float. I feel like Margaret Thatcher doing that one.

And there’s the Waggle, a girlie little “toodle-oo” gesture.

Any variation on the Lefty always feels awkward, like I’m giving a less-than-upfront wave.

The Flagman, an open hand on a forearm raised straight up from the elbow, is usually reserved for pickup truck drivers.

The friendliest wave of all is the Fast Parade Wave—wavey, wave, wave, wave, I know you alright, glad to see ya!

I’ve tried combining them just for giggles.  The Parade Wave–Waggle takes way too much energy and makes me look like I’m sprinkling pixie dust.  The Flagman-Waggle is too coy.  The Lefty–Fast Parade Wave is likely to tear your rotator cuff if you’re not careful.

And sometimes a wave won’t suffice. There are neighbors out walking, too, who expect more than just a wave.  You’ve also got to SAY something to them, along the lines of “Good morning” or “How ya doon?”  Except if you know they’re deaf. Then you can get away with a wave and a lip-sync.  It’s easier than hollering, that’s for sure.

Once Bill and I were out walking together, past a porch where this guy sat out every morning, basking in the sun.  Bill, who doesn’t know the neighbors as well as I do, waved.  I had to whisper, “Don’t waste the wave.  He’s blind.”