The Boston Globe

The crashes at the neighborho­od corner

- By Heather Hopp-Bruce Heather Hopp-Bruce is director of visual strategy for Globe Opinion.

The latest car crash was fairly minor, though it probably didn’t feel like it to the woman driving the blue sedan that thwacked into the side of an Amazon delivery van.

We knew it was minor before we rushed outside; living near a black hole of an intersecti­on in Greater Boston comes with the bonus of car collision sound expertise. Rarely is there the screech of tires before the thunk of impact. In the biggest accidents the screech comes after the thunk as an impacted car spins down the street. Once there was a small pause then a second, deeper impact sound when an SUV went airborne then landed squarely inside the hedges on the lawn across the street.

There’s never a honk before the thunk. If you have time to honk, you have time to stop.

Many neighbors also rush outside — even for minor wrecks — in case anyone is injured. You never know. Joe, who plays a mean accordion, is usually out there first; he lives closest. His wife, Anne, who gives me flowers on Mother’s Day, comes out when she’s feeling well; she’s had a recent health scare. Wendy, who serves Trader Joe’s scones on fancy plates, is often there, as is her husband, the beneficiar­y of fancy-served scones. So is the new young couple on the corner, whose fence has been driven straight through twice already since they moved in.

Once we’re sure everyone is OK and the police have been called, we stand on the corner and talk. If the accident is big, we call 911 before we come outside. Triage.

People up and down nearby streets have formed a coalition dedicated to solutions; that impact sound apparently really travels. The neighborho­od is crawling with kids and dog walkers. It’s just a matter of time until someone is killed, but maybe we can prevent that. We Zoom, plans are made. The more organized among us — not me — invited local politician­s to have morning coffee on the corner and maybe watch a wreck, or at least a few close calls, in real time. Another neighbor requested accident reports. Many emails were sent to City Hall.

The responses we got: A traffic light is too expensive. Speed bumps on the feeder side streets are unsafe for ambulances. Making the side streets one-way is not an option, no reason given.

A couple of years ago the city painted big white curves that extended around the corners — a representa­tive referred to them as “pedestrian bubbles” when we called to investigat­e the strange street markings that had popped up overnight. Then a crosswalk appeared. Then a crosswalk with a flashing light atop a pole when a button is pushed appeared. Then, after a particular­ly messy accident closed most of the intersecti­on, a frustrated driver sped around the cluster of police cars and hit a pedestrian. After that, rows of 3-foot plastic sticks appeared lining the intersecti­on on the main street to prevent people passing in the parking lane. People just drive over those. Thwap-thwapthwap has been added to the ambient playlist. Recently mysterious but official-looking neon orange spray-painted arrows have appeared on the pavement.

After my neighbors and I make sure there are no injuries and everyone is safe, we discuss the physics of the wreck. Some are perplexing: How does someone even get enough speed to launch over a hedge? But mostly it’s the same story. Someone blew through a stop sign at the wrong time, someone else was doing nothing wrong at the same time, and thunk. Cars and lives spin in all kinds of unexpected ways.

We’re equidistan­t between the police station and firehouse; help is not far away. As the sirens approach, our group on the street corner talks of other things. The new couple had their baby. Wendy’s son is moving back from Nebraska. She has a puzzle to give me, she knows I’ll love it. The house of our dear neighbor across the street is going up for sale — he passed away recently after living his entire long life there. Our oldest is going to be a junior already. The lilies are amazing this year, aren’t they? We talk until the last tow truck is gone, debris has been kicked out of the street, traffic resumes, and eventually we say goodbye to wander back indoors.

The sound of the neighborho­od is honking and thwhap-thwhap-thwhap and thunk, but it is also the sound of us enthusiast­ically greeting one another as we walk by, laughing on Zoom calls, Joe’s accordion at backyard parties, calling the neighborho­od dogs by name. It’s the sound of people we know and care for rushing out to help strangers. It’s the sound of a community made stronger by the very problem we are trying so hard to fix.

 ?? HEATHER HOPP-BRUCE/GLOBE STAFF ?? Bits from different cars accumulate curbside at the intersecti­on as yellow traffic sticks stand ineffectiv­e sentry in the background.
HEATHER HOPP-BRUCE/GLOBE STAFF Bits from different cars accumulate curbside at the intersecti­on as yellow traffic sticks stand ineffectiv­e sentry in the background.

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