Questions I Never Asked

And, Now It Is Too Late

My neighborhood is a mix of quarter-acre lots with 1940s small Cape Cod and Colonial-style homes. A few have had major renovations (like mine) or simple additions to accommodate modern lifestyles. This is my first and only house I’ve owned. It wasn’t always the plan to stay here more than 25 years, but as I’ve been able to do renovations, it will continue to be home.

Unlike other suburban neighborhoods, which tend to be more homogenous, my neighborhood is mixed life stage, ethnicity, and family size. This suits me just fine. As a single mom by choice, my family is not traditional by nature, and I prefer to be surrounded by diversity.

When my kids were little, on a block with 20 houses, there were only 2 others with kids. This isn’t surprising given the transient nature of the community. Inside the Beltway (as they say) that surrounds DC, military families, government workers, and consultants tend to come and go. Given the smaller nature of the homes, residents tend to be childless couples, older residents, couples in starter homes destined to leave for McMansions further away from the city, and groups of young professionals sharing the mortgage or rent.

However, one of my direct neighbors had been here longer than I, providing stability just knowing they were there. Well, when I moved in as a single, professional woman, there was only one occupant, a single man. We would say hello. Nod when we saw each other, but never had deeper conversations other than the weather when exchanging misdelivered mail.

The early years in my home were spent working, socializing with friends, and rarely being outside other than my screened-in porch. Before I knew what happened, he was married to a Polish woman, Yola. (I often wondered if it was a mail-order bride situation, as it seemed to happen so quickly.) I didn’t even notice until after the birth of my kids, and several months after the birth of their son. Her accent was thick, making it difficult to understand her sometimes. After a while, I realized she was calling me Julia instead of Julie. I didn’t correct her. I didn’t mind.

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My nanny, an older woman who stayed in my home with the twins, befriended Yola, whose son was a few months younger. They had play dates when the kids were toddlers, but that came to an end when Yola thought my twins were too loud.

When I had a plastic playset with swings, I extended an offer to come over and use the set whenever they wanted. They used it, but almost exclusively when we weren’t home or outside ourselves.

Nothing better than a trampoline with leaves.

Several years later, a trampoline became the draw, and a new neighbor with children down the street socialized with us regularly, and Yola gave in and let her son join in the fun. That lasted a few months with the kids going over each other’s homes before Yola pulled the plug again. She didn’t think it was appropriate to play in each other’s homes. The family, who socialized, soon moved as her husband was in the military.

I have few regrets when it comes to relationships. I typically consciously decide how much effort or not to put into relationships. I never want to look back thinking I could have done more.

My kids didn’t go to the neighborhood school, although neither did Yola’s son. My kids needed special programs, and Yola’s son attended private school. But we would chat from time to time about what the kids were doing and later what they would do after high school.

When I took up gardening about 5 years ago, Yola would watch me in my yard and frequently disturb my ‘me’ time with simple conversation. I just wanted peace, but she wanted to chat.

A few months back, she came over to tell me they were moving. Her husband had retired and wanted to move near family in Boston. At first, I didn’t think twice about it. I offered up boxes and extra bubble wrap I had, and over the weeks, as they packed, I offered help although none was ever requested.

And, just like that, they were gone one weekend, and the house sold 2 weeks later. And, as I tend my garden this spring, I realized I was sad they were gone. Why? I didn’t really know them. They were just a constant. Then I thought I would never get to ask Yola questions. Like, how did she and her husband meet? Was she a mail-order bride? How was it to live in a different country away from her family? How did she learn English, and did she miss her Polish family and friends?

It reminded me of all the other questions I have for people who can no longer provide the answers. I don’t remember the moon landing. Why? I was 6, shouldn’t it be a core memory? I can’t ask my mom, who died 9 years ago this June. My grandfather had a sister who died before 10. Did my mom know how that happened? Did my grandfather talk to her about it? I’ve tried genealogy, but I just get event dates, not the stories. My extended family is very small, and the few cousins of my mother who are still living won’t know the answers to those questions.

These are part of my history, but I will never know. While small, somewhat insignificant to most onlookers, it just nags at me that I didn’t ask. I know why I didn’t ask Yola. At home, I turn inward. I wasn’t rude, but I did have things I needed to focus on. I also thought Yola would always be here. I could ask her later.