You Better Wave

There’s no better ice-breaker than moving into a brand-new housing development with ten other families.

It’s an instant, equalized community where everyone has exactly what you do: extreme mortgage payments, dirt back yards, and sheet/blanket/beach towel window treatments.

Our first summer, we held countless potluck barbecues in the cul-de-sac. While the kids played, we grown-ups discussed deep, soul-wrenching topics like, “Who Got the Best Deal on Their Floor Plan,” or “Who Spent the Most on Ugrades.”

It was our neighborhood’s honeymoon time.

But it wasn’t long before the marriage fell apart, and I saw the whole thing happen. It began when neighbors stopped looking for people who might be waving at them.

Thelma noticed it first.

“That Didi,” she snorted. “What a conceited little pill!”

“Didi seems nice enough to me,” I said uncomfortably.

“Oh? Well, every day I pass her house to get my mail,” said Thelma. “And there she’ll be, sweeping her porch or watering her plants. And I wave at her. But she doesn’t wave back.”

“Perhaps she didn’t see you,” I suggested.

“Bless your heart,” Thelma tut-tutted. “You always see me. You always wave. But that Didi! She has stopped waving at me for some reason, that–”

That’s when sweet, grandmotherly Thelma called the unwaving Didi a witch. Only she used a capital B.

Now it is true I always wave. You live in Texas for 3 years like I did and you darn well better learn how to wave. In Texas, everybody waves. I’m back in California now but I find the habit is dying hard.

In addition, you might say I’m a persistent little waver. If you don’t wave back at me, I think the problem through. I figure: You didn’t see me wave. I mean, why else wouldn’t you wave at me?

So I wave harder. Sometimes I wave with both hands. I pretty much embarrass myself until somebody waves back.

That’s why I couldn’t understand why neighbors would feel snubbed just because someone didn’t return one little wave.

Then it happened again.

Sophie’s husband waved at Mel, who was working in his garage. Mel didn’t wave back.

“Maybe Mel didn’t see him,” I said.

Sophie looked at me like I was putting her on. “Todd waved. Mel did not wave back. Mel saw. He’s just mad at us about something,” she said ominously.

Then Didi let me in on some bad news. Apparently Janet had waved at my husband when he was mowing the lawn, but Hubby didn’t wave back. Janet now was telling everybody that Hubby was stuck-up and a snob.

I was wondering how to patch things up when Janet’s daughter came to our door to return a borrowed bowl.

“I’m in the kitchen,” I called out. “Just put it on the coffee table, Sweetheart.”

“Oh, I can’t,” said Sweetheart. “My mother says I’m not allowed inside your house ever again.”

Well! You can see why I thought this whole waving thing was getting a little bit out of hand, so to speak.

“You won’t believe the serious feuds brewing in the cul-de-sac right now!” I huffed at Hubby that night.

“Just a minute, honey,” he interrupted, “I want to tell you about something that’s been bugging me all day. I was working in the yard this morning and I waved at Mitch. But he didn’t wave back! He flat out ignored me, the–”

That’s when he referred to Mitch as a “poop.” Only he didn’t use the word “poop.”

Are you new to the neighborhood?

Take it from someone who knows. Pay attention when you’re out in the yard, because someone might be waving at you.

You better wave back.