What Does It Mean to Be a Neighbor?

Reflections On A Day in Small-Town America.

Photo by kiryl on Unsplash

My friend who first made me consider that I might enjoy raising chickens texted me and asked if I had ever fed my chickens grapes. Well, no I haven’t.

“They are hilarious with them,” she said.

Since my chickens will be leaving tomorrow to live on the farm of a woman in my yoga class who raises and shows chickens, I thought grapes would be a good parting moment with them.

My friend was right, they were hilarious. I stood at the gate throwing grapes to them and enjoyed some much-needed laughter. Then I went and retrieved poop bags to clean up the yard before our neighbor cares for Weber while we are at the University of Washington Medical Center for Scott’s evaluation.

Scott was sitting on the porch—super weak today—when the three children of the neighbor from across the field behind us came to see the chickens. This was not a problem except Weber would not stop barking and I couldn’t put him inside because—remember?—I was gathering poop.

I enjoy watching the children play in the field beyond our chicken yard, but today they were being children and using sticks to poke at the chickens through the fence. So we shooed them off while I threw away the poop bags. It wasn’t long before the father of the children—we had not met—came walking across the field and asked why we told his children they couldn’t play in that part of their yard.

It wasn’t my best day for a confrontation. All the stress I was holding short-circuited any simple explanation. I did my best—which was not stellar—and then began crying and trying to tell him about how sick Scott was, my chickens, the poop, how adorable his children were, how I was a teacher, and how I loved to watch his children play, and how sad I was that the chickens were leaving, and . . .

I have no idea what else I said.

I told him things I will likely not ever remember saying while standing there at the fence with the chickens looking at me hoping I had more grapes.

I could not stop crying.

And suddenly this man who had come to defend his children, began telling me that he was my neighbor and wanted to help me, and he would be willing to care for the chickens and that I didn’t need to give them up and did I have a piece of paper so he could give me his phone number?

I didn’t have paper, thanked him for his kindness, and extricated myself. After unloading my grief in my office, I returned to the porch to watch the chickens. It wasn't long before the neighbor came to the side gate. He handed me a piece of paper with his name, his wife’s name, and their phone number. “Call me any time—even in the middle of the night. I will be right here to help you. I have had hard things happen in my life too.”

I looked into his eyes and knew this was true. He asked if he could give me a hug and I was glad I said yes to his compassionate hug. After he left, I looked at the paper and saw he shared my dad’s name. I could feel my dad smiling down at me.

Scott said, “You are a peacemaker—kind of like a warrior peacemaker—but still a peacemaker.”

He is not wrong, but is that a thing?

I told this story to my son and he said, “We are all just a bunch of humans walking alongside each other and sometimes things get crossways.” That statement applied to more than this episode in our lives, but it felt much like Ram Dass once said, “We are all just walking each other home.”

The little corner where our cottage is located is the closest thing I have found to what America is meant to be. It is a place where neighbors sometimes have “moments” but ultimately care for one another. We undoubtedly have different political beliefs, but we don’t talk about them. Up and down the street are neighbors who have said, “If you need to talk, just come knock on my door.” I am very blessed.

My chickens are blessed too. They will get to live on a farm and wander even more freely. I may even visit them sometime. For now, I think I will give them more grapes before heading to the next challenge in this thing I call life.