On Being a Neighbor

Once upon a time, everyone knew their neighbors. Not just the folks next door on either side of your house - you knew everyone on the block and down the street a way. I grew up in a small town - have written about it in previous pieces. It was the type of place you didn't bother to lock your front door when you left for vacation. We had no air conditioning, so all the windows were open. Same for everyone else around us, except one family who had window units. You could hear Edith sneeze from across the street. You heard children playing outside. You could hear everyone's mother calling them to come in for dinner, etc.

Well, knowing your neighbors is a rare thing now. I have lived in several places where a cursory glance between neighbors didn't even happen. I thought being neighborly was a thing of the past. Until, that is, I moved to Woven Wood Lane in Richmond.

There is a guy next door, I think he's somewhere around my age, who knows everyone on the street, talks to everyone, waves at everyone as he drives his vintage muscle car with its distinctive mufflers roaring through Pecan Gove. Instead of being the creepy, oddball bachelor sharing a house with a buddy, he is truly a neighbor.

When life with mother got much more demanding, I would come home to discover my yard mowed. It still happens. In bad weather, my garbage cans find their way from the street to the garage with the lids on them to prevent them from filling with water. I happened to notice that my mail box post was coming apart and made a mental note to call my brother to help me fixt it some day. I glanced sideways while I was backing out of the driveway last week - it was fixed. I know who did it. There was no doubt in my mind.

He has referred me to reliable mechanics for Lil' Buddy. He has helped me load items too big or too bulky for my puny frame to handle, and he constantly asks about mother and her well-being. We talk about family, pets and God's grace. I have come to call Brent a friend, not just the guy next door.

On a hot, summer day you will see Brent running up his water bill hosing down the kids on the block as they run through the water squealing with delight. They fight with water cannons and shoot fireworks together. He watches out as they play in the cul-de-sac and makes them get up in the grass when a car enters our short street. He talks cars to the car guy on the corner across from me. He listens to the fishing tales and marvels at the haul from a fishing trip the guys several houses down bring home. You will find out that every kid on the block knows him personally - and they mind him when he tells them to get out of the street or look both ways before crossing.

There was something so familiar about Brent. It took me a long time to nail it. I don't know why because it was so obvious. Brent is a carbon copy of Frank Jonas - my dad's best friend. Frank was the oldest kid on our street. He was like a second father to many us. His yard was the place to be. We gravitated to him like little magnets. So did every stray animal. There was safety there, and there was always fun.

When they are grown and have moved on, I hope the children of Woven Wood Lane will look back and realize what kind of neighbor Brent was for them. I don't think they make many of these people at all. They are a rare find. I thought the mold was broken after Frank Jonas was created. I was wrong, and I am very happy to say that!