It took two years and a dog for me to finally meet my neighbors.

As soon as we moved to our first house, I began an evening ritual: to walk the neighborhood, rain or shine. Enjoying the quiet suburban streets, wondering what happened to sidewalks, and stepping onto the nearest lawn when a car (or, let's face it, a truck—I live in the South and people like their trucks) got too close. I was usually the only one, unless my husband joined me. Sometimes I'd get a wave, but more often than not, it was just me, contemplating my day as I admired front yard gardens, shady trees, and the 1940's and 50's architecture.

Why do we choose our neighborhoods? Affordability, location, looks. The kinds of cars in the driveway or how the garden is tended might be a clue as to the type of person who lives there, retirees, working professionals, young families. Who these people really are, however, is a bit of a gamble. And this is tricky because we really need our neighbors. Not to borrow a hammer or a cup of sugar, but to look out for us and to help create the communities we need to keep our homes safe and our neighborhoods strong.

Making Friends with the Neighbors

In my childhood home, we knew our neighbors, but didn't socialize with them. My parents kept close watch on their activities and often speculated about why so and so was doing such and such. I realize now that is less because every other person in the neighborhood was a weirdo, and more because there were too many secrets to be kept at our house. My dad is an alcoholic, so I guess it makes sense that it is easier to avoid those closest in proximity than risk their judgment.

But as the daughter of an alcoholic, one thing I've always had to do is guess at what's normal. Now a grown-up woman in my thirties, I understand this habit a little bit better, but I still struggle with what a normal person is supposed to do in any number of situations. I've been a bookworm since I learned to read, so stories clue me in, as well as books and television. But that love of stories drove me to major in English in college, so I know that really, these fictional friendships are devices that advance the plot, not the real deal.

A year into home ownership, we got a dog. I'd always wanted one. My husband was less enthusiastic, but when I brought home the small, pathetic creature—who the Animal Shelter assured me was on her very last day—he couldn't help but fall in love with her, too. Walking the dog changed my evening routine in ways I did not expect. What used to be solitary strolls were interrupted by my dog greeting other dogs, and their walkers. You meet and remember these people usually by their dog's name—oh, that's Charlie's owner; that's Checkers' person; Molly was off her leash earlier, is everything okay?

Breaking Barriers into Friendship

But there was something about having a dog that broke other barriers. The occasional interchanges with other dog walkers sometimes became actual conversations. And even neighbors without dogs seemed to get friendlier. Some would stop their cars and unroll the window for a quick chat. There were many more end-of-driveway conversations. We'd pick up each other's mail, keep our eyes on each other's houses when we were out of town, share tips on good plumbers, painters, mechanics, gardeners, petsitters and handymen.

It was this second year that things really started to come together. Invitations were exchanged. We had the joy of adding a new member to our family, our son. We were neighborhood fixtures and had neighbors we could trust and rely upon. They were all so fascinating—architects, a cameraman for a local television station, a landscaper, a minister, a retired teacher. Not kindred spirits, perhaps, but good neighbors. It felt good, comfortable, safe. It felt like home.

Of course, all good things must come to an end. We loved our neighborhood, but not so much our city. Then, a new job opportunity sprang up for us in a different town, four hours away. Exciting new challenges shone bright on the horizon, and all the hard work we'd done to build a community at home was going to change forever.

There were sad goodbyes and the promise to email and send Christmas cards. Like all good intentions, some stick and some don't. The house sold with relative ease, new digs were found, and just like that, we set ourselves up to start all over again.

And Making New Friends Again

In November, it will be two years since we moved. Our new neighborhood isn't so different from our old one. I guess we have specific tastes—we like established neighborhoods with tall trees. I thought about this as I walked home from having tea at one neighbor's house only to stop and have a nice driveway chat with another, as we watched her kids ride bikes and run around the lawn. We talked about schools and neighboring towns and juggling work and family. I confessed that I found dinnertime to be the most stressful time of day. "That's why it's preceded by cocktail hour," said my neighbor. Once again, it took me two years to get to this place. But it has been a worthwhile journey.

I've learned that it is my job to make this neighborhood into what I need it to be, and want it to be. It takes some work on my part, some putting myself out there and hoping for the best, not expecting too much but not hiding, either. It isn't enough for me to peep out behind sheer curtains and observe these people—I need to put myself out there and know them. I need to build my community, and create a place of safety for myself and my family. I also need to take the dog for a walk. Anyone want to join me?

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