God and the Neighbors

When we first moved to our community 40 years ago,  we lived in town, although, even then, we farmed.  We were blessed to find a house in a quiet neighborhood that welcomed us and nurtured us through the early years of our marriage.  When we arrived we were childless but in a couple of years we increased our family with a son.  Within six months of that event, I was hired as the County Extension Agent for Home Economics.  Hubby was already in the process of building a business and farming at night, and soon I was busy with the long hours of an extension agent.  It was a hectic, frantic life that you could only do while young and ignorant.

Our son was a bright, sunny, busy little boy.  He had a cheerful disposition and a busy attitude.  He was quick, light and did I say busy?  We enclosed the backyard for his safety and he climbed the fence before the last section was finished.  We learned that he was impossible to corral into a confined space, so we enlarged his parameters by telling him that he could roam the yards,but not cross a road.  Probably, by today's standards, a solution that would have child services on our case today.  However, for him it worked, in that he knew not to cross a street and endanger himself in traffic and kept him in a controlled space.

What we didn't figure on was that it opened our neighbors up for a Dennis the Menace type invasion.  Our neighbors, like Mr. Wilson in the comic strip, consisted mostly of retired grandparents.  Fortunately they were supremely tolerant of the little boy who felt they were all his favorite friends.  He soon developed a daily routine that called for visits to each home.

 In the morning he shared breakfast with the neighbor behind us.  Mr. V., a retired mechanic, soon discovered that the little boy loved doughnuts.  Before long the little powdered sugar doughnuts became a staple on his wife's grocery list.  After his doughnut, the little Dennis look alike would wander up the street to visit with Mr. G.  Mr. G could be found outside at his picnic table during the days, staying out from under Mrs. G's cleaning and cooking.  Most days, Mr. G would be having a little orange juice as he sat in the shade.  The little boy learned that Mr. G kept his orange juice in a jar in the bushes next to the table.  He couldn't have any of that, but if he went to the door and asked politely, Mrs. G would give him a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator.  Years later he would figure out that Mr. G wouldn't share his juice because there was a little something extra in it. 

He usually skipped the next house because the owner was a retired school principal.  Years of dealing with little boys of all types had given him little tolerance for the antics of a busy, inquisitive menace. Another house yielded a quick golf lesson from a patient, avid golfer who used his back yard to practice chip shots and puts.

If the day got long and a little pick-me-up was needed, he would head for his favorite neighbor, Mr. P.  Mr. and Mrs. P raised five children and were always ready to include a little boy in whatever they were doing.  This included helping Mr. P wash his car every Saturday morning.  An event anticipated only slightly less than birthdays.  Early on Saturday, the little boy would rush through his breakfast and head to Mr. P's house, where he would be supplied with a sponge and bucket.  With total disregard for wayward splashes of sudsy water and errant sprays from the hose, Mr. P would encourage the little boy in helping to wash the car.  His reward would be a piece of hard candy that Mr. P, a rural mailman, would keep for the kids on his route. 

These kindly neighbors provided love and support for a little boy as well as, their slightly overwhelmed parents.  When our daughter was born, they opened their hearts, and homes, to the little girl who faithfully followed her brother everywhere.  They read stories, comforted hurts, patched up quarrels, mediated playground squabbles, watched for potential dangers, and gave many life lessons. 

Someone once asked how on earth we managed during those hectic years.  I thought about the long list of sitters who had come and gone with little impact.  The truth is that my children were raised by God and the Neighbors. 

Thank God for you, Neighbors.