Door to door

This past weekend it snowed in Chapel Hill for the first time in a long time. In my daughter and son-in-law’s neighborhood, kids and their parents were cavorting in the negligible dusting. Any incline presenting itself was gleefully traversed on cardboard, boogey boards, and the occasional relic sled. My grandson Henry and I watched from the level warmth of the playroom when the doorbell rang. It was a guy and his kid who looked a bit older than Henry. The guy was holding a bag. Does Henry need snow pants? he asked. His son had outgrown them.

Maybe an hour later the doorbell was rung again. This time it was a couple of enterprising girls, eight or nine years old, I’m guessing, going door-to-door, drumming up their hot chocolate delivery service. Salted caramel, dark chocolate, milk chocolate, but no more classic chocolate, sorry. Did you want marshmallows? Did you want to use your own mug, or borrow one of theirs? My son-in-law provided his travel mug and donated a bag of marshmallows. He asked how much they were charging. “Whatever you have,” was the answer. “It’s up to you. We’re accepting anything.”

My neighborhood in Connecticut is congenial but witholding. Here, there’s a familiarity that families seem to steep their kids in. The yards are relaxed and pathwayed to accommodate casual networking. Big kids look out for little kids instead of snubbing them.

What would this community withs its tot lots and little libraries look like, but with appropriate cultural variations, on a global scale? Imagine a planet of trails under trees leading to houses ringed by bikes and soccer net equivalents that reflexively models altruism, both practically and spiritually?

Maybe we are at our simple human best when artlessly woven together, relishing chances to find ourselves face-to-face with neighbors, with room for the option of marshmallows.