Christmas Party
Sunday, December 21st, 2008
Cold this terribly frigid can begin to wear on the senses and the perception of reality. In July, the walk to the neighbor’s house directly behind the back fencerow lasts maybe 30 seconds. No roads have to be crossed and there is nothing to impair the trip except, maybe, a poorly timed lawn sprinkler. Only about 100 steps are needed to follow the sidewalk past a long extended garage and up the driveway to the Beauhop’s front door.
In late December, with the wind moving unbroken across the prairie and temperatures beginning to dip toward arctic lows, it seemed as though it took nearly five minutes for a small family to pick their way along the familiar but treacherous path. The bigger bodies helped the smaller ones step around ice channels spread across the sidewalk and avoid slipping on slick snow frozen to the sod.
Two years ago, this ground was empty pasture divided by tree lines that had been planted a century back. The land was sold to developers by a farmer who’d raised cattle. Houses that now stand on cul-de-sacs and meandering streets were just drawings on a developer’s map and the clay-thick soil was still waiting to be paved and made over with beige, two-story houses and lawn sod poisoned green. Mr. Beauhop’s sons owned the plans to the development and they saved the last, most extraordinary house on their plan sheet for their parents, people of retirement age.
I have seen Mr. Beauhop in the yard during warmer times but never spoken to him. He’s a big man with white hair that refracts the summer sun as sharply as broken bottle glass. I’d seen him driving a CAT through the neighborhood while picking up sod or other materials needed to finish him home and carrying them back to his own house.
The summer after we moved in, the land-clearing equipment came in and smoothed the land into rich mud. The streets went in as did sewer lines and immense cement drains that were dropped into the ground where consturction had already caused groundwater to collect. Some trees were taken down angering a few neighbors and some modest-sized homes were constructed. Every morning that summer, before the sun was up, the sounds of hammering and pressurized nail guns would come shooting through the trees as clearly and as dependable as birdsong.
For months, paint vans lined the new neighborhood streets. The first of the finished houses were sold and traffic picked up. Construction then began on the Beauhop’s place – an expansive, ranch-style house that over time came to look nothing like the others in the neighborhood. The front yard was marked by a circle drive, the walls were stucco, there was turret and wind vein that characterized the roofline, the front and back opened up with expansive windows, and the plot was larger than any of the houses nearby.
Until this house had gone up, ours had gathered the most attention among our neighbors – not because of its size or cost, but beause of its quaint charm. But the small grudge I kept to myself about the new neighbors behind us had nothing to do with envy. I’d not respected the work they’d done to demolish the field behind us and, along with it, part of our privacy and what we loved of the house. But that was always a silly notion. I’d already purchased a house less than 10 years old built among the pasures and corn fields. My home’s construction had already ruined someone else’s notion of this town.
The Beauhop’s opened their doors to us on Friday night. Their dining room table was set with sausages and other finger foods, breads, candy and dessert. Two iron pots warmed on the stove full with cider and hot chocolate. Coffee was brewed and ready in thermos on the kitchen bar. And, the house was wonderfully decorated in charming holiday decor.
We balanced plates on folded legs and chatted with couples from surrouding houses we’d never met. Mrs. Beauhop told us that she volunteers at a chariable organization that helps find food and clothing for plighted urban families. And, we discovered that before he entered the construction business, Mr. Beauhop toured the world as a professional singer for 30 years. He played a small part of a Christmas recording he’d made long ago with the London Philharmonic and I can say, I’d never heard such a natural and soaring voice.
As we talked, the distance between our houses seemed to dissolve, which made for a shorter walk home. In this arctic weather, it’s strange how a warm cup of cocoa with neighbors can melt away cool bitterness.
