Speaking of Being Neighborly

I have an elderly neighbor who’s been around for about 30 years. Up until a couple of years ago, he and his even more elderly parents shared the home. They’ve passed. Now he lives alone. He’s quirky, with quirky ideas. Whenever we chat the conversation always finds its way to the biblical ominous end of times. He believes the end is near in an apocalyptic way. I can’t judge his ideas. I mean, I can’t say either way but I can say that in spite of his odd beliefs, it is still my job to be as compassionate as possible. I mean who am I to tell him he’s wrong. And, well, he’s always been a nice neighbor.

I leave him muffins and treats and I shovel the walk in front of his house—a trade for when he’d snowblow mine when I first moved in. He shares his tools if I need something, and let me tell you his garage has everything! E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. He has a piece of paper on the door of the garage that has LOCK printed in Sharpie to remind him to lock the door.

One recent evening, unusually, his yard light was off. The darkness caught my attention.

The next day I noticed a piece of paper on the door of the house that informed Ken and Marg that he was out of town, where he went, who he went with, and when he’d be back. Oy!! I shook my head and wondered if he should also leave a sign stating “Please help yourselves.”

As told in Fast Food and Fear my window faces the yard. I went to bed and woke to a noise coming from outside—his backyard. I popped out of bed. The light in his garage was on, the door wide open. Well hell! Now what? I let a few minutes pass, then made my executive decision to call 911. I told them about my elderly neighbor’s habits—that it was unusual for him to be up so late and in the garage. I told them that he was out of town. If they weren’t busy, could they please send a car?

A couple more minutes later a car was in the alley and in the wrong yard (my fault). I whisper shouted “Guys, wrong garage! West side.” It was the loudest stage whisper I could muster without actually yelling. They confirmed and entered Tom’s yard. I could see it all from my window. The police called into the open door and Tom came out! Tom! What the hell!

The officers told him there was a concerned neighbor calling about the lights in the garage. They confirmed his identity. They asked if he was out of town. He was. But he came back and was awake from late nights on his trip. He apologized for being up. They said it wasn’t a problem. The neighbor was simply worried. They left. He went back into the garage. I felt like an over reactor—sort of. I was glad he was okay and was not being robbed.

I sat on my front step in the dark. The cruiser pulled over in front of my house and an officer came to the steps. He told me everything was okay and thanked me for calling. He told me to have a good night.

The next morning

I was watering my flowers. Tom came around the corner. I asked if he liked the rhubarb muffins I gave him. He said he did. Before he had a chance to say anything else I spoke. “Tom, I called the police last night. I wanted to make sure you were okay and that no one was stealing things from your garage. But it was you in the garage. I thought you were away! I’m so sorry.”

Kindly, Tom thanked me for caring. He said some people would walk by a fallen man, say that’s too bad, and carry on. He appreciated me making sure he and his belongings were okay. I hope that if, in my future, things are a little off, my neighbors notice and make sure I’m okay.

I hope this is what being neighborly is about.

As always, thank you for reading, lovelies.