Won't You Be My Neighbor?

You can pick your seat, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family. Or your neighbors.

Like every other aspect of your life, neighbors can be a true blessing or a real pain. This week I attended the funeral of one of the former.

My sister and brother in the old neighborhood.

I grew up in 1960's style, in a middle class neighborhood, constructed post-World War II, where most of the homes were identical, single-story structures with three bedrooms, one bath and no basement. Only the paint job and the landscaping gave each house its personality. And there were the trees. Our neighborhood was shaded by old maple trees, planted when the lots were first plotted out in 1929 (I'm assuming right before the market crashed and the owner could no longer afford to construct the homes.)

Through the years, the houses became associated with their long-term tenants. Among those who have lived there for any length of time, my childhood home is still referred to as "Tony and Mary's house." Throughout my childhood, into adulthood and even today, this is the case, although my parents have not lived in our neighborhood home for several years.

Then, last week, we lost one of our old neighbors.

Mr. and Mrs. K lived two doors down from us. I have known them for the majority of my life, along with their three children. Their oldest daughter, Linda, I count among my dearest friends. I attended Mr. K's funeral this past week. It brought back many memories and felt as though I was losing a part of my childhood. Like many of the folks in our lives, we take our neighbors for granted. Although we may move on and get older, somehow the neighbors we knew growing up are frozen in time, waiting for us to go back and give them a hug.

It occurred to me, looking at the photos the family arranged, that I'd really only scratched the surface of who Mr. K was, in the way kids know an adult in their neighborhood. I remembered the polka music, of course -- his family made sure it was playing in the background during the wake. I remembered that he worked at the Chevy plant, that he was full of life, and like many of the men in his generation, he didn't take shit from anyone. He loved his family fiercely and worked his ass off to provide a good home for them. One of my favorite stories was of Mr. K. reluctantly taking his daughter to see Elvis Presley, her hero. He didn't want to go, but he wasn't going to let her go alone. As it turned out, the event transformed him. He talked and talked about how much he'd enjoyed the concert and wanted to go back and see Elvis the next year.

I look at my neighbors today. We have been lucky to date. We say "hi" and wave and chat every now and again. Then go on our way. I wonder if our house will be known as "Ginleys place" when we move on. People don't stay in one home as long as they used to. There are only a handful of people on our street who are still here since we moved in 20 years ago. We are a far more transient society.

I guess all you can do is foster that neighborly feeling while it lasts. Be considerate of your next door neighbors. And remember them when you can no longer shout a greeting over the fence.  Remembering people keeps them alive, even when they move to better neighborhoods than this world can support.

So long, Mr. K. I look forward to sharing a polka with you someday. In the meantime, have a beer for me, will you?