Walking in the city, on the trudge to and from Metro or at lunchtime when I stroll around the Mall, I can’t help but listen in. “We only have two months.” “I said 15 not 50.” “Do you think she’ll be able to pull that off?” Everywhere I walk there are conversations to be overheard. I’ve come to think of it as “eaveswalking.” It’s not as intentional as eavesdropping but it’s almost as satisfying.
Then what of the walker in the suburbs? My eaveswalking here is a mostly silent affair. But still, the houses talk to me. When I walk through our neighborhood each house has a story. Sometimes the story is about the people who live there now, but other times it’s about people who lived in that house five, ten years ago.The family with four boys who used to play football in the front yard. The boys grew up; the family moved away. The man who planted a beautiful perennial garden. His wife once admitted, “I don’t love gardening but I love the gardener.” The gardener died three years ago. His wife moved back to California. But the flowers still bloom every summer.