The new popular

I certainly didn’t expect this. Picture a neighborhood street fair so warm, homey and old-fashioned, it looked like a scene out of Brigadoon. Now picture neighbors throwing their arms around my neck and sobbing.

Word was spreading through our neighborhood that my husband, Lucky the dog and I were soon going to spend the majority of our time in NYC, keeping our Los Angeles canyon cottage as our second home.

“You can’t leave!” one cried out. “We’re going to miss you!” wept another.

This is not the kind of thing that usually happens to me. (Okay…ever.) We’ve moved something like five times since the kids went off to college, taking turns alternately following my husband’s and my career opportunities.

With the old neighborhood broken up, kids grown, old friends and relatives moving on, we’d gotten good at maintaining electronic bonds and gathering for special occasions, not feeling the need to get deeply engaged with any particular neighborhood. As a result, we’d gotten used to traveling light, not only in regards to the quantity of goods that we ship from place to place, but emotionally, as well.

In our last move, for instance, I think we pretty much left a note on the next door neighbor’s windshield, with contact info in the event of an emergency.

But something shifted over the past couple of years. We became popular.

That’s the word for it…and it didn’t drop in out of the blue. The other day, walking Lucky, I bumped into one of my neighbors, who was upset that her daughter Gena had been left out of a neighborhood birthday party. While I’m not privy to all the social interactions in the pre-millennial set, I know that popularity and the inherent value of an individual do not always correlate.

I know this because I wasn’t one of the popular girls in elementary school, either. In the pre-Glee Club era, I was one of the band and orchestra girls…definitely not cool. That didn’t stop us from having a blast. But we couldn’t help but be aware when the whole school was buzzing about this or that party, and we weren’t invited.

I’m not sure Gena would believe me if I told her this. But based on the neighborhood’s reaction to our move, here’s what I’ve just figured out: Somewhere along the line, it can turn upside down. Uncools can suddenly wake up one day and find that everybody wants to be their friend. Not out of design or strategy, but out of something spontaneous and organic.

Astute readers will already have the clue as to what shifted for us. Clearly, it was the dog. We got Lucky just before we moved here. She is a generous, gregarious, loving creature who thinks that nothing is more special in the world than to greet any of the neighbors on our daily walks. She melts hearts.

Following Lucky’s lead, we couldn’t help but get engaged with the neighborhood. We babysat each other’s dogs; commiserated when one of our pooches stepped on a bee; and from there, started inviting one another over for coffee or a dip in the pool. Of all the titles I’ve accumulated in my life, the one of which I am most proud is this: “treat lady.”

Children and dogs drag their parents up the path to the front door; we put up ghosts and goblins for Halloween and dress Lucky like a pirate. And suddenly, I get what the new popular is all about. It’s not about how much we are loved — that’s at best an unintentional, unexpected and divinely welcome by-product. It’s really all about how much we love them.

So ouch. The note on the windshield is a lot cooler way to say goodbye. But dear little Gena, here’s what I’ve learned. Someday, you’re going to forgive all those who didn’t get how special you are, the ones who broke your heart. Because it is through the cracks that love not only enters but flows. And yes, I’m going to miss you, too.