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The Almost-Lost Art of Window-Watching

My mom loved to watch out the window.

When her daily housework was done and supper was on the stove, she would check out the neighborhood from each of three windows in our living room. Then she would do the same from the dining room window. If something caught her eye, such as a newly divorced neighbor woman strolling by with an unfamiliar fellow, Mom would stand at right angles to the window and gingerly lift the curtain to get a better view. Life was, uh, slower in those days.

My childhood friends found the scenario amusing. "That cracks me up, the way your mom peeks out the window," one friend laughed.

It had never occurred to me that ALL moms weren't window-watchers. Or that window-watching might not be an intrinsic part of adulthood.

Of course, my friends didn't know about the really serious window-watching AND listening that occurred when our wealthy neighbors next door had company. On summer evenings, when the neighbors' guests were leaving after a card party, Mom and I would race upstairs and crouch beneath a screened bedroom window. On a quiet night, we could hear every word - the talk of future soirees, golfing at the country club, and planned trips to exotic places we only dreamed of, such as Disneyland.

If I'd make a noise, Mom would hush me. If I put my face in the window, she would gesture frantically, warning, "Be careful - they'll see you!" I was learning the fine art of window-watching.

Decades passed, windows came and went, and Mom, 93, died recently here at the home we shared. Up until almost the end, she was avidly window-watching. She noticed every time one of our neighbors came out to smoke, and whether he inhaled. She observed every jogger, dog-walker, and stroller-pusher in the neighborhood and tsk-tsked if they forsook their daily rounds. She watched for the mail truck and would yell, "Mail's here!" I dutifully retrieved said mail ASAP if I knew what was good for me.

With advancing age, Mom would often complain, "My eyes are so bad, I just can't see a thing anymore." Then in the next breath: "Oh, look at what they're carrying in over at the Johnsons'! Appears to be some kind of fancy green lamp with tassels."

I've found neither the time nor inclination to window-watch in adulthood, and I would clench my teeth whenever Mom summoned me, with urgency, to view some mundane sight from her bedroom window: the trash guy had a cast on his arm, or Mr. Roberts was mowing his yard while Mrs. Roberts sternly supervised, or heavy-set Mrs. Hooper was again getting ice cream from the Mr. Softy truck. Whoop-de-doo.

But just lately, I seem to be developing an odd awareness with regards to my environment. I suddenly noticed that the Smiths are letting their newspapers pile up, the McCillicuttys' yard has gone to seed, and, oh my, the Olsons are fighting again - she just stormed out of the house in a holy huff.

Let's just call it intellectual curiosity. I like the sound of that.

Learn more about this author, Karen Williams.
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