Bill & Betty

Angela and I hadn't lived on Abbey Place more than a month, possibly even less, when the retired man who lived next door, Bill, came over. He asked if we'd like him to trim the bushes out front. They were neglected and overgrown and it was evident our promised gardener wasn't in a hurry to come over. He said that the bushes needed to be cleaned up so that no one could hide in them, since we lived alone. We thanked him and told him to tackle whatever projects he was interested in.

The bushes got trimmed, regularly. The tree outside our window got pruned. The rose bush by the garage got tended too. And each Friday morning, as the trash truck left Abbey Place, Bill drug all of our cans back behind the houses and organized them just how we liked them. For over nine years. Even after dementia took his memory of our names and his ability to initiate any projects, he still drug those cans in each week, sometimes before his hours-long walk, sometimes after. And even after he forgot our names, he would smile, knowing we belonged, and thanking us for the cookies and treats we delivered periodically.

But this morning, I had to drag the trash cans in myself. And I let them sit out there a while after the truck left because I wasn't quite ready to do it just yet. But then I did. Because things change.

Tuesday Bill and his sweetheart of a wife Betty moved to Arizona to live with their son and daughter-in-law.

Fall 2016

It's been a move years in the making. She's been talking about the new place for quite some time. And even though, after 62 years of marriage and over 50 years in their house on Abbey Place, she was sad to do so, she knew it was time to go.

It had become too much for her to take care of Bill, of her brother Jim who lived downtown in an apartment, and herself all alone. Yes, we took them to doctor appointments, drove them home from the hospital several times, called insurance companies to sort matters out, and dropped off some meals. But it wasn't nearly enough. Arizona and full-time family was calling.

So this fall we collected boxes, we filled tubs in our garage with items she was sure we needed (a punch bowl larger than any I've ever seen, wine glasses for a very big party, a coffee carafe never used that dates back to the sixties, some pinecones Bill had collected on a walk and painted bright green), and we listened to Betty's fears and qualms about leaving. About moving away from the place she'd called home for so long. From her friends. From her house. From her independence.

And we tried not to be sad. To remind ourselves that this is in their best interest. That this is what they need. What they deserve. And yet...

We will miss the blueberry bagels from Noah's on our front doorstep on Sunday mornings. (I never did ask what prompted Betty to get us blueberry years ago but she did and we ate them, even Angela who doesn't like blueberries. She loves her blueberry bagels.) We will miss the loud conversations between Betty and her brother Jim who lost his hearing long ago while working for the airlines. It became comforting music on days he'd visit and stay for hours. We will miss their extended family members who would hug us and text us when they got home and who treated us like one of the gang. We will miss having people who watched our house constantly, who watched out for us, who kept track of things, who knew the goings and comings of the entire neighborhood. We will miss that sense of community.

And mostly we will miss them. The day we moved into Abbey Place I remember them coming outside and introducing themselves. Brother Bear was here too (we call Jim Brother Bear, Angela and I, no idea how that started but it is completely a term of endearment because from day one Jim knew our names, our jobs, and loved to chat). They introduced themselves as Bill and Betty -- and I remember looking at my dad, who was helping to unload the U-Haul. We couldn't believe it, Bill and Betty and Jim. My dad's mother was Bette. His father was Bill. And his stepfather was Jim. It was a sign. We had California grandparents.

Over the years we made sure to write down travel plans and take them over so she could pin them on the fridge, and never fail, before a trip, Betty would come over with a bag of homemade trail mix for our voyage. And more often than not her and Mary, our other California grandmother across the street, would come over after our arrival home, to chat and catch up and deliver flowers. We were missed, we would be missed, and that meant so much. We held Betty's arm as we walked home from dozens of neighborhood watch meetings. We celebrated holidays together. We checked on one another after storms and bouts of sickness and surgeries.

And Monday night we went to Sizzler with Bill, Betty, her son and daughter-in-law, for the last time. We had a laughter-filled dinner, giggling over how much Bill loved eating ice cream cone after ice cream cone from the self-serve machine, and then headed home. Betty insisted on riding with Angela and I, as she usually did. She taught us a shortcut from the restaurant right to our house that shaved 10 minutes off the drive. She was leaving us with her last Los Angeles secret. And then we headed into their house for our goodbyes, for a last photo.

I don't have a copy of the picture her son snapped on his phone. I don't need it. I know it will not be one for Instagram. By that point Angela and I were holding back sobs, poorly I might add. We were trying to get her new address and give them the cookies and trail mix we had made and give our goodbye hugs. We were a mess, all of us. Yes, even the son and daughter in law were in tears. Because I think it finally hit us all. This was over. No, not the friendship, not the relationship. I have promised Betty a call early next week to check in on them. Her son has promised to teach her to use her new smartphone and help her to Skype. I have promised cards and maybe even a visit this summer. Phoenix really isn't that far away...

Bill & Betty's house, the view from our kitchen window

But this was over. Being neighbors, living next door to each other for almost ten years. Their California chapter. They were the very first friends we made in Los Angeles. Every morning and every night I would stand at the kitchen window, drinking water, washing dishes, making dinner, and I would see Bill working in the yard, or early on, loading his golf clubs into his car. I knew their schedule better than I knew my own. I can still hear the click of their walking sticks as they left for their walk, rain or shine, six days a week for almost nine years. When I'd go out for my walk early I'd know just where I'd see them come over the crest of the hill on Lucerne. I'd know when to pull out my earbuds and get ready to chat about the day. Because that's a different kind of relationship than we have with most people.

Wednesday morning I got a text from their son. He sent a photo of Betty, sitting with her tea, looking tired but also relieved. She told us over and over again how sad she was to go, how scary it was to go, but she also told us it was time. And the photo Wednesday was proof of that.

Abbey Place will never be the same again. But we will never forgot about them either. We have been blessed by so much in our lives and the idea that we came across the country and found family is just more than we can even fathom. And now we have family in Phoenix too...