109. The Neighbors

In the early 70’s, as I walked around the corner of my block on my way to work, I passed a house where a man sat by the window in his wheelchair, and he smiled and waved to me. I returned his greeting and kept going. Every day, the same. I don’t know what made me think of this just now. Something must be tugging at my mind and heart, because I am suddenly hit by a wave of sadness. And guilt, I guess. Why didn’t I go a little further than simply waving back to him as I passed? What a self-centered person I was, not responding to someone smiling and waving from his wheelchair every day. Did I need an expressed invitation to approach his door to have a neighborly conversation? What small amounts of time and kindness was I too stingy to share? Frankly, I was assuming that his disability was war-related, and where my head was at in those days, I was afraid to receive his friendliness for fear that I’d get caught up in hearing about his trauma in Vietnam. Yeah, I was not a big enough person for it.

Ten years later, new neighborhood. There was something about that place. Or was it me? I kept feeling put-upon by neighbors. At first, the new folks on the other side of our back fence seemed friendly enough, but I felt they made themselves a little too intrusive. He expanded their 2^nd story deck out almost to the fence, and from there it was possible for them to overhear our conversations.  From inside my kitchen, I heard him in his yard chucking at my joke, saying “Good one, Robert!” He’d lean over the rail almost within spitting distance of me and let me know how good my pot roast smelled. Later, he asked if he could borrow my ladder, and I walked over to see him fussing with the TV cable wires on the utility pole. He called down to me and said he’d be happy to fix me up with free cable. I declined. Things came to a head when he asked if I would I take him in my truck to Costco so he could buy a load of potted palms.  I shook my head firmly. “What? You don’t want any potted palms? Come on, they’re a great price!”

Meanwhile, across from us, a new family moved in. They were newly from Russia and as they had no homeowner skills, were apparently quite used to having neighbors or handy people do everything for them.  They had no qualms about asking me to mow their lawn, clean their roof, and so forth. I begged off doing any of that, but I did teach husband Alexei how to mow his own lawn. Since Nina noticed that I left for work around 9 in the morning, she wondered if I would chauffeur their little son to his private school the next day. She said it would be a minor detour for me, 8-10 minutes at most. She said she had a timing conflict. OK. I took him to school, thinking of it as a one-time favor, but Nina called again and wanted to discuss her son’s transportation schedule for the rest of the school year. Then Nina admitted she drove right past the school every morning on her way to work, but to get her son there on time, she would have to leave her house 15 minutes too early. Oh my God! Never mind her offer to pay me. Dmitri was a cute kid and all, but a little bit of him went a long way, and the same went for his whole family, so I got out of that arrangement right away. It was safe to assume that any inch I gave them would cost me a mile. Still closed off to neighborliness, I felt justified for it. But what I resisted persisted.

Now in Olympia, we have figured out how to release the struggle with neighbors and live happier. We’re on a cul-de-sac street of 31 homes where we are friendly or at least cordial with just about every resident. Being daily walkers and recently dog walkers, we have at least conversed with every person on our street, and befriended several. We have come to enjoy an eclectic bunch, from long-time owners to new renters. Over the years, we have seen international diversity and an ever-changing spectrum of lifestyles, including retirees, young working singles, families with teens or toddlers, active military, and college students. There are tradesmen, medical professionals, teachers, restauranteurs, state employees, and IT pros. Among us are the skills to repair cars, design and build houses, maintain landscape, install furnaces, fight fires, and even minister to a congregation on Sundays.

Basically, I’m describing an evolution of maturity. Starting as shy, judgmental and fearful, I expected to encounter difficult people and therefore found exactly that. In early days, I would probably have been very comfortable living on a street where everyone was like me, a young anti-establishment artist with long hair. Marrying Linda was the smartest thing I ever did, for among the people skills she taught me was the gift of seeing others as fellow travelers, all of us sharing or crossing paths in life. I can still encounter a lonely shut-in, or a chronic borrower, a grumbler or a talkathon. No matter, I choose now to greet them all.