Last night I went on my walk, but late. The day had been stiflingly sticky and hot, but once the sun went down, the air was pleasant, almost cool, so I decided to go further than I had planned. I followed one of my regular routes, which takes me through residential streets in my neighborhood, far removed from heavy traffic.
Eventually, this route took me to one of my favorite streets, Glen Heather. This is a street with huge (for Texas) well-established trees, many of which reach from either side of the street to almost meet overhead, forming a beautiful green bower. I'd guess the houses on this street were built in the late 70s or early 80s. Every house is MCM (mid-century modern), with lots of wonderful sharp angles and big, floor to ceiling windows. Most of these houses are just one story tall, with a few exceptions, but whether one-story or two, every house on either side of the street is a duplex. I don't know what possessed the builders to construct an entire street of nothing but duplexes here in Dallas, where the soil is so abysmally bad that sooner or later, every house ends up with foundation problems, which I'd think would be horrendously complicated, legally, if you're sharing a slab with a neighbor. But foundation problems aside, the other unusual feature of this street of houses is that without exception, every one has a lovely enclosed patio.
All of the patios are huge. Some run across the front of each house and then turn to go run along the sides as well. Each patio is enclosed by a brick wall of varying heights: some are just 3 or 4 feet tall, so that from the street one gets a glimpse of who or what's inside, but others are 5 or even 6 feet tall, providing complete privacy. I am so intrigued by these wonderful patios, that every time I walk down this street, I imagine different scenarios: I imagine having breakfast on these patios on beautiful days, sitting in a comfortable chair at a tempered glass table set with eggs and bacon and toast; a tray with croissants and jam and butter; glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice; cups of hot coffee with cream, hearing the softly rustling pages of a newspaper as it's held to be read, back in the days when newspapers were actually made of paper and delivered to one's door. I imagine lively cocktail parties, back when people still had cocktail parties, in the 50s and 60s. That was before these houses were even built, of course, and yet these enclosed patios beg for the presence of cocktail parties. If I close my eyes I can almost hear the laughter and soft tinkle of ice in glasses that need regular refills. I imagine having dinner parties on these patios. When I was a bride, in the early 70s, we and all of our friends had regular dinner parties for 6 or 8. I can imagine hosting dinner parties on these beautiful patios, drifting in and out of the house to bring more food and refresh drinks, the night air perfumed with the scents of the jasmine and honeysuckle and gardenias that grow freely along the patio walls.
But in the entire 3 years I've been walking down this street, I've never seen a single soul out on any of the patios. Not in the daytime, and not at night. A handful of houses have strung lights which make the patios look festive at night, but despite the lights, the patios are empty. Instead, the windows of the houses occasionally flash blue, evidence of someone deep inside the house, watching television instead of hosting a cocktail party or dinner party on their lovely patio.
The times we live in.
