As a child of the military I haven’t had much opportunity to tap into that neighborhood feeling so many of you enjoyed while growing up. We moved regularly while the old man was active duty, and once he finally put down roots I stayed in the breeze, the proverbial bad seed. I’ve lived in something like 18 different towns, 10 states and two countries. Hell, I’ve lived in five different parts of Bibleburg between 1967 and right this minute.
But I feel at home where I am now, and it’s not a simple matter of nifty real estate. It’s about people. Community.
Folks around here help each other out. One of us gets sick, another cooks for her. When the patient is back on her feet, the chef scores a little gratis landscaping. Do a little light snow shoveling, you’re liable to get repaid with a platter of corned beef from one neighbor and some homegrown greens and tomatoes from another. That sort of thing. We stop what we’re doing right this minute to chat each other up. Sometimes this means blocking traffic. Nobody calls the cops, or even honks. Instead, they join right in.
John Crandall came home from the hospital today, and his wife, Kathy, had asked if I would help wheel him the final few meters. I agreed, but not without my own internal reservations. Some stairs were involved, and the last time I took the lead on hauling a wheeled something up a flight of stairs I blew out my back (large refrigerator, small college, not my neighborhood, a whole other story).
But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, so when the Crandalls rolled past with a honk, I headed for the door — just in time to see one of the neighbors crossing the street toward me. In some areas this might be cause for concern, but here it was Will, a soccer fiend who dabbles in track, weight-lifting, cycling and good deeds, and just the kind of guy you want around in this situation. I’ve seen him drop whatever he was doing to help a neighbor carry some groceries at an age when many a kid wouldn’t drop the Xbox if it were on fire, sprouting tentacles and shrieking “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh C’thulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn,” and a year of college hasn’t done him any harm the way it did me.
Will’s mom, who does her own share of good works, apparently had suggested to Will that John and Kathy might need more than one portly, bald-headed tosspot to get the man into his house without further need for medical assistance. So we strolled over to the Crandalls, leveraged John up the walk and into his house without incident.
Kathy went for a fresh bushel of meds, Will and I hung around and chatted for a bit, the landscaper popped round to say hi, and then we all went back about our business. Will’s was something like running up the Incline, which recently killed a guy. Mine was grocery shopping. Easier on the legs, harder on the belly.
I suppose I should’ve taken a picture. But honestly, this sort of thing happens around here so often that it’s hardly newsworthy.
