I hadn’t realised it, but very few people in Glenhazel live in their own homes. They might physically be domiciled there, have paid for it, have changed both interior and exterior, added solar, redone the garden, the kitchen, and all the bathrooms, but the house isn’t theirs. And won’t be until they move out. It’s only then that when the new occupants tell someone where they are living, they’ll say, “Ahh, you live in the Abelman’s house.”
I was chatting to a friend on Shabbat when this realisation hit me. I didn’t know that he had moved to the area as a teenager. “Really?” I said, “Where did you live?” “Ridge Road. Across from Yeshiva College.” To which I instinctively replied. “Wow! You lived in the Goldberg’s house!”
Not only did I prove the concept that I had until then not thought of, but I also dated myself. Because whose house you live in is an indication of an era and the period of reference. Not convinced? Try it. My son lives in the Adler’s house. Even though they made aliya years ago. We live in my parent’s house, spent years living the Herbert’s house, and a friend lives in Hugh’s house. The Mandelbergs, incidentally, live in our house. And have been doing so since around 2006. Payments, bond registrations, and even FICA documents are irrelevant. The community decides where you live. And it’s unlikely to change its mind. Until you move. After which it might be reconsidered.
The one way to own a house while actually living in it, is to build it from scratch. Whereas it would be understandable to think that it was dramatic change to the property that conferred immediate community considered ownership, that isn’t the case at all. Rather, it’s that the entire neighbourhood would have had the opportunity to visit the construction site during a Shabbat walk, to debate the cost, comment on the size and positioning of the rooms, and provide unsolicited feedback regarding all of the above. Community participation, it would seem, qualifies immediate and irrevocable naming rights to the property.
“Howard!” said a walker who I passed one Sunday morning. “What do you intend doing with that property on Summerway?” I was taken aback. Mostly because I hadn’t thought to loop in the senior woman who now stood in front of me, hands on hips, waiting for her answer. One she clearly considered well overdue. “I’m so sorry!” I stumbled. “ I had no idea you needed to know. I apologise for that,” I continued, “Can you remind me why it’s relevant to you?” She could not. And in disgust, motioned to her walking partner and marched ahead, deeply offended by the impertinence of the answer.
I was wrong.
Because what I failed to see is that community is relevant to us all. And whereas it might seem bizarre and even rude when a stranger asked a friend of mine if he had run out of money while building his new house – there was simply a delay in materials delivery – and when people comment on items that seem to have no bearing, it’s because we’re connected, we care, and one man’s solar can brings another man light.
No matter whose house we live in.
