Small-Town Windows

There is a Blue Spruce that stands outside my bedroom window—no one ever expected that it would grow quite to the extent it has— “It’s a Fat Albert Blue Spruce—it’ll never be taller than eight feet,” Brad had told my mom.  Mom attributes its enormity to vocal admiration and praise— “you are so beautiful,” “you are so strong,” “look at the charming, blue growth at the tips of your boughs,” “Aren’t you the prettiest thing?”  

Before my view was blocked by this pretentious pine tree, I could see quite a bit. Blondie had purplish hair and a pink house kitty-corner to ours. She wasn’t around much. Belle was to the North. She was a quiet and kind old woman, and she was hard of hearing. Of course, you couldn’t determine that from observing from across the street, but you could when you heard a wee belch in the middle of church (a belch that was thought to be adequately suppressed) or when you knocked relentlessly on her door—finally having to peek your head in to holler.

From the front-door window I saw lots of faces—when it was the Schwann’s Man, my mom would tell us to hide. I guess that was easier than telling him she still had a whole box of chicken cordon bleu in the freezer. One December evening, I looked out of the window to see my cousin giving me a round of applause. I had unknowingly performed Johnny Mathis’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” with some Broadway flair—arms out, standing at the top of the ladder.  The only way I could’ve descended that ladder any faster would’ve been to fall off.  

One could see the top of my dad’s head while he stomped the snow off of his feet before coming in, or my mom trying to find the house key while several bags of groceries banged against the door. Opie, our little, white Maltese could be seen sitting at the top of the stairs waiting to come in, or basking in the sun where the sidewalk ends. Joni, my best friend, would wave excitedly and walk toward the door—she didn’t wait to be let in most times. Loved ones and friends, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Kirby vacuum salesmen, these were all part of looking out of that front window.

My dad’s family lived on the same block. As a result, we could see all of his siblings’ houses from our back windows. “Looks like there is a new truck over to Clyde’s.” “Who’s that over to Maurice’s?” These comments normally meant, “Amanda, go and get my binoculars.” Don’t worry, it was like a neighborhood watch—just keeping an eye out for our kin—rest assured, just our kin.

Also from these windows, I would see Alva walking down the street and Brett speeding for the hills on his three-wheeler. Elementary-school kids would be walking home from the bus stop—throwing their backpacks up into the air or bending down to grab a snow ball. In the evening I would see dad working on the rusting Riviera—a light-bulb clipped to the hood—rubbing his greasy hands onto a blue rag. I would see Maurice and Shane stopping by with bags of corn and zucchini. Cason and Shad would be playing basketball on their sloped driveway with friends (a slope that made for quick athletes and accurate passes), and that one time I saw that one kid from the county line driving our lawnmower in our backyard acre of dirt. Dad didn’t trust him to drive the 4-wheeler even though he had been begging dad for some time. The kid didn’t get to drive the mower after that however, as from the window I could see he was trying to climb that huge pile of dirt in our south-east corner—I ran and told on him. I would see Uncle Dave walking out to Spring Creek, friends who got to play before they practiced violin, and Marilee walking to her mother’s house carrying a cat. It rained, it snowed, it was windy, it was sunny. It was life.

Sometimes in life, however, we see those raw moments of living—not something as simple as snow falling in giant flakes, or someone going about the menial tasks of the day—but, something that stirs your core. In these moments, real living takes place—you are no longer simply observing. Such was the case this particular quiet afternoon. I was 22 years old, living at home, and waiting for a missionary assignment from my church. I was alone and had probably been walking from the back bedroom toward the kitchen. What caught my eye though was the view out of my parents’ south window—it was Uncle Clyde. He had been for a ride on his 4-wheeler, but now he was just sitting there—no carrying yard tools into the carport, no taking sodas out of the outdoor fridge. Just sitting. He was alone too, and probably didn’t think anyone could see him as he was very still, just staring into the same place for a very long time. Even though I didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts, I didn’t want him to be alone. So I stayed where I was too. You see, Uncle Clyde had been diagnosed with kidney cancer. Normally a stalky six-foot-six, his face was now very thin and his frame significantly less giant-like. It was in that moment that I saw a small part of what it feels like to be at a point in life where one is unsure of their finishing point. Where the past is definitely a thing of the past and where the present literally is a gift. Every moment, every hug, every word matters. It was like I could see his hopes for his family—a wife, a daughter, two sons and their small families.  It was like I could see his sadness in leaving them behind. I could see his pain. I could see raw reality. I don’t know if he was crying, but I was. The experience was a reminder that life is real. That we live it. And that it can hurt. There was something sweet about the experience though too; maybe it was that I got to spend a little time with my uncle that day—just me and him—thinking about those real things that can draw souls together—I had never felt as close to him as I did on that day.

 I know others too, who have seen these real moments from their windows—the following is an account from a husband and father in our small-town circle who recently lost his beautiful wife to cancer:

 “Tonight as we were coming home from basketball games…, I dropped the kids off at [my sister-in-law’s house]. Then I raced home to be alone with my grief. As I crossed the…bridge into town I thought, maybe I should go to the cemetery, maybe I would find her there. So I slammed on the brakes and spun around kicking mud and gravel up as I went.
 When I got out of my car I ran to her grave. Being overcome with grief in that moment and missing her so much, all my strength was gone and I fell on her grave. I lay there for a while squeezing great clumps of dirt in my hands. Then slowly, wearied from sorrow, I rose to my knees, brushed the dirt from me and stood up.
 As I walked to my car to leave, another vehicle pulled up. It was President Chynoweth. He had watched the whole thing from his kitchen window and raced up to meet me. He threw his arms around me and let me weep on his shoulder all the while saying the kindest things to me. It was like the Savior himself was wrapping his arms around me. Oh what love, what generous love!”

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A view from our window surely cannot tell us everything about a person, but it can surely tell us a few things if our eyes are open to see them; perhaps we see that Belle needs help getting her garbage can to the street, or perhaps Uncle Vergene needs help finding his house again. Perhaps we see that although Mr. Lee can be a cranky old man, his small dog brings a smile to his face, and perhaps we are a little more understanding of his gruffness when we see a flag pole in the corner of his yard with the American Flag and a black and white “POW” waving beneath it.

Maybe a scene from our window has less to do with someone’s needs and more to do with simply recognizing our own needs in seeing life through a more present lens, a more insightful lens, a more sanguine lens—rather than scowling over a window half-full, one may recognize a beautiful Blue-Spruce that exceeds all expectation and proudly reaches its blue tips above and beyond its ever-growing potential.