Early one summer we were working in the front garden, trying to coax any living thing we could from the musky earth, when a station wagon pulled in front of the house. It was another young couple and their 3-year-old daughter. They rolled down their window and radiant smiles filled the car and spilled out onto the driveway. "Hi! We've moved into the house right behind you!"

From that moment on, Else and I spoke at least once a day. When we became pregnant at the same time, our conversations increased to several times a day: comparing morning sickness, discussing doctors visits, or chatting about nothing in particular. We would often meet at the back fence that divided our yards. If we pushed our toes as far as we could onto the lower cross-board of the fence we could just look over the top of the fence to see the other person's eyes. We had many warm-weather conversations this way.

When the expanding girth of our bellies disabled us from meeting at the fence we would walk around the block to the other's house to drink tea and discuss various wives' tale methods of inducing labor. One weekend, our husbands surprised us with the tender gift of a gate allowing passage between our backyards. It could not have happened a moment too soon, because once Nina and Madison were born the gate became our route to sanity.

The gate became a late-night passageway for infant Tylenol, the morning path for coffee, or the evening lane for the bit of salt needed for that night's meal. One of my life's most endearing memories is Andy (Else's husband) coming through the fence to tutor us on clipping the nails of a two-week-old baby. I watched, mesmerized, as he laid my infant daughter in his lap and, with the precision of a surgeon, clipped the tissue-paper thin nails on Nina's diminutive hands.

In the hot summer months we would escape the heat of our non air-conditioned bungalows by spreading out picnics in the shade of our backyards. Our husbands formed a gentleman's stock club and on the night of their monthly meeting Else and her children would pass through the gate for "Breakfast for Dinner." It was a monthly tradition where the children delighted in having pancakes, scrambled eggs and juice for dinner. When the children began to talk they would ask for us to open the gate so they could go through. Even our dogs would visit each other at the gate, scratching at it until we would let one of them through.

One day, about four years after moving in, Andy and Else came to ask our opinion about another, larger piece of property, situated with a larger home. Of course my husband was very objective and rational, agreeing with them on the financial benefits of the move. But my heart sank. Their family's success was important to me also, but I did not want them to move away from my family. I knew what we had was special and once gone would never be replaced. I had to tell them, "You should not ask me what I think because all I know is how I feel, and it does not provide sound judgment for you."

The Sinsigallis bought the other home and it was the right thing for them. Although we kept in touch, we were never as close as when we could pass through the gate at a moment's notice. The new owners moved in and we introduced ourselves, but we rarely saw them. Eventually, after a storm blew the fence over, they replaced it without the gate.

Since then we have replaced our little cottage with a larger home that reflects a stately image of Willow Glen. It is a grander home that accommodates a larger family and boasts a modern kitchen with 10 outlets and copious counter space.

I love my home and the way that it allows me to entertain my friends as an extension of my appreciation and love, but it can never summon the magic of the little cottage. Maybe it was the simpler times, or it could have been the romance of starting a new life, or maybe it was the gate. Yes, I believe it was the gate.

Ana Whitlock has lived in Willow Glen for more than 10 years. She can be reached at awhitlocka2@cs.com.