We’ve always tried to be good neighbors. And by and large, we’ve had good luck with the folks fate has plopped us down next to.
We rented our first house. It was your standard 3-and-2 Fresno ranch with a nice but badly deteriorated, fenced back yard. We planned to have our wedding reception there and made a deal with the owner’s rep that we’d pay for anything we needed to fix the place up and he’d let us have our way with what we did. Worked out just fine. And the neighbors on each side were friendly but unobtrusive, perfect for a young couple wanting to feel secure but unexamined in their first house.
Our second abode together was our first purchase. It was in a brand new development and we had a lively set of neighbors gradually settle in around us. The elderly folks to one side were sweet and caring and taught us a lot about putting in a yard. On the other side was the ultimate Mutt and Jeff couple. She was short and plump and constantly talking a mile a minute and oh, yes…nonsensically. Easily the sweetest and dumbest person you could ever ask to meet. Her hubby was tall, lanky and spoke in an accent we struggled to penetrate. He was brilliant but possessed not an ounce of descernible sense. The two of them were always coming up with grand ideas that Mary and I would chuckle about in bed at night.
Across the street was a couple who had a young daughter about One’s age and we would share babysitting duties and play dates . She was a nurse and he was an architect. A lovely couple from whom we received Christmas cards until recently.
And next to them was Crazy George. No, not the professional cheerleader guy. This gentleman was named George and happened to be a few bananas short of a bunch. He was maybe the most obsessive-compulsive guy I’ve ever met (and keep in mind, I work as an advocate for people living with differences, so that’s saying something). He used to sweep and then water the dirt in front of their house before the lawn was put in and washed their car by hand about three times each week. He would come across the street to congratulate Mary and me as we worked on putting in our yard the old fashioned way. Told me he was proud of me, as though I did the work not out of necessity but rather to earn his approval. He’d stand there in his house slippers and walking shorts, a stogie clamped between two fingers. I don’t believe it ever occurred to him not to wave his noxious cigar around a woman who was fabulously pregnant.
Since we’ve moved to this house, we’ve had a string of neighbors, both good and not so good. Fortunately, the latter variety tends to move in and out fairly regularly while the salt-of-the-earthers stay longer term. So, we’ve had our share of folks revving up the Harley late at night and hosting underage drinking parties but for the most part, our neighbors have contributed positively to the richness of our lives. Susan and Bjorn are basically family. They helped raise One and Two and we’ve shared good times and bad. Mary is her shopping partner and he taught me to install kitchen cabinets. Next to them is an elderly German couple of heavy accents and sharp eyes. They watch the neighborhood carefully: when Mary’s old van had a short in the wiring, Bruno would call at 11:00pm to let us know the brake lights were once again draining the battery. It became a regular thing – the phone would ring at the appointed time and one of us would grab the keys and head outside while the other picked up the phone to thank Bruno for the heads up.
Down on the corner, Jim was a wonderful Japanese guy who rode his bike to work well into his sixties but lost his will and gumption after his wife passed. He eventually passed on as well, but not before serving for years as the girls’ go to guy for buying their Girl Scout cookies or dispensing Halloween treats.
Martin and Emily were a wonderful pair – he a Lithuanian and she a Filipina and once you sorted out the accents, just the nicest couple you’d ever want to meet. Their dog, Bobick was the neighborhood’s friendly terror until they moved out of the immediate area. They still come back for things like graduation parties.
The Bobergs around the other side of the block shared kid raising adventures. When the power was out for days after the big snowstorm, Becky brought her sickly mother-in-law to sit in front of our fire while she (Becky) distracted the kids with group dancing lessons. Mark and I frequently share the same bus to and from work. We also share a propensity for using ear buds and iPods to shut out the random conversations and road noise. And their kids sit with our house and dogs when we’re both out of town.
No special reason for sharing all this with you. Except that most of you are old friends and when we’re together, the conversation seldom gets around to just everyday life. Too busy catching up on the big things, I suppose. Mary and I are both home feeling poorly from the colds that never seem to quite go away and sitting here in the ratty old writing chair, I just got to cogitating on the fact that not all family is flesh and blood.
