Neighbors

Growing up in a small town we knew our neighbors well. Some of them had been my family's neighbors for generations. Others were new to the neighborhood but they didn't stay new for long. We knew all the kids, they all knew us and everyone played everywhere.

Neighbors became extended family. They babysat us and cared for us. They put band-aids on skinned knees and fed us the food from their refrigerators. They wiped away tears and helped make mudpies. We were family.

When I moved away in college, my relationship with my neighbors changed. There was the sorority house on one side and on the other? A family who never made eye contact or wanted anything to do with a bunch of college kids. In grad school neighbors were a crap shoot as apartments were changed frequently and a 'hello' at the mailboxes was usually the extent of our conversation. In Arizona, well, neighbors didn't socialize. The apartment complex we lived in was all one floor, spread out and full of people from all walks of life. Everyone stayed inside and the pool, where you might think we'd socialize, was almost always empty. The surface of the sun doesn't help create lasting relationships with the people next door.

But when Angela and I moved to Los Angeles we settled right in the heart of the city. In a neighborhood with a Block Club, schools, parks, a library, and lots of people. In fact, we moved onto a cul-de-sac where we promptly met many of our co-habitators. Almost five years later, most of us still live on the same street. We smile and wave, stand outside and shoot the breeze, and occasionally, enter each others homes for cookies, coffee and conversation (sometimes even champagne!).

I was thinking about these people recently when we toyed with the idea of moving. We are having landlord issues again and frankly, would like a place with heat and AC. But those are mostly pipe dreams. Dreams that were put to rest again (though not forever) yesterday when Ang opened the front door before we left for church and found a bag on the doorknob. That familiar brown bag from Noah's bagels. Every Sunday morning our neighbors Bill and Betty, both in their 80s, head out to the farmer's markets, the shops, and wherever else they can find to explore. And about once a month or so, they come back with two blueberry bagels for us. Sometimes Betty knocks on the door, sometimes she leaves them hanging on the doorknob. Either way, they bring a smile and a reminder that we have great neighbors. (Also, no idea why they're always blueberry but Angela quickly learned to like blueberry bagels, which she hadn't liked before!)

And then today, I was thinking about neighbors again as I've spent most of the day reading my neighbor's memoir. Mary is in her 80s as well and has spent about 15 years writing the story of her life. She found out I'm a writer and well, long story short, I'm doing some editing for her. And guess what? I'm loving it. I first went into the job thinking, okay, let's just do this, but now, I'm hooked. I can't wait to read the next chapters!

Neighbors. People who live in such close proximity to us we often hear their arguments, their tantrums, the intimate details of their lives. People who in turn, affect us, usually when we least expect it.