NEIGHBOR

Blustery Rain. Blistering Sun. Snowy showers.

Nora walked her pup.

Four or five times daily I'd pass her in the neighborhood. Our neighborhood.

Each pass, I'd wave. Nora would smile and wave back.

For years.

Occasionally - rarely - I'd not be hurrying to a lesson, game or event.  I'd spot Nora - with her silver hair and arduous gait - gripping her pup's leash as she walked around the block. I'd slow down, lower the squeaky car window, and call out a greeting as our dogs barked at each other.

How are you?  Such a gorgeous day!  Will it ever start/stop snowing?

Nora would nod. Smile her sweet smile and walk on.

You now know as much about Nora as I did, dear Reader.

I cannot remember the sound of her voice.

I cannot remember the name of her dog.  Because I probably never asked the name of her dog.

Sad truth be told, I only learned that Nora was terminally ill a day or two before she died.

Never made it to the hospital to say goodbye.

REWIND to July: I am driving past Nora's empty house when I discover a tall, slender woman standing in the driveway, unsuccessfully coaxing a giant canine out of her car.  

Think Barbra Stanwyck in skinny jeans and a tee, sunlight glowing all over her gorgeous gray hair.

I step out of my car and Giant Canine no longer needs coaxing. He leaps from car seat, over lawn and onto lap, before I can utter 'hello'.

Barbra Stanwyck rushes over to pull Kujo (I mean Lito - I did ask his name) off me. Fully slobbered but unharmed, I reach for the lady's outstretched hand, feeling suddenly transported to L.A. Boulder. Sedona.

This woman is cool. Bohemian awesome.

"Hey. I'm Carol," she says. "Winnie's cousin from Taos. I'm here for a while to go through the house."

Taos. Makes perfect sense.

But Winnie? Who's Winnie?

Turns out Winnie is Nora, dear Reader, as she was endearingly known to family and friends. I never knew Winnie, because it wasn't until ten months after she died - childless and alone - that I finally met Nora.

REWIND to August: I am stepping over boxes, tools, shovels and ladders in Nora's garage; en route to the dining room where I plan to help Carol pack up the stuff of her cousin's life.

I have never been in this house and feel like an intruder as I walk from kitchen to living room. Tiles are scratched. Furniture is pilled. Oriental rugs are faded. Tables and shelves are laden with dusty china figurines, tea cups and silver.

I scarcely see these things.

I see books. New books. Old Books. Really Old Books. Stacked on rugs, shelves, tables.   

I see walls adorned with faded murals. Dozens of framed paintings and prints resting on couch cushions, rocking chairs and ottomans.

I see a ukulele. A guitar. Tambourines and maracas. Stacks of sheet music and original scores that slip from carpet to floorboards.

And a grand piano baking in frosted streaks of sunshine that pour from two windowed walls behind it.

Nora was a musician.

A reader.

A collector.

For hours, as I listen to Carol's remarkable memories and turn the pages of old books and music, I am utterly overwhelmed at the very idea of Nora.

How is it possible that I passed my neighbor for nine years, offering a pleasantry here and there, while utterly unaware of the incredible richness - and solitude - of her life.

Indulge me for a moment, dear Reader.  I'd like you to meet Nora as I met Nora.

Her library:

 

 

 

 

Her love of music and all things French:

 

Her love of Christmas and the Von Trapps! (This is a critical detail, dear Reader, as I am rather fond of Christmas and the Von Trapps. All Great Rulers are.)

FACT:  Just around the corner, in a silent, dusty house where my neighbor lived a lifetime, I learned a few lessons of a lifetime.

Lesson 1:  Neighbors who are simply neighborly may be missing out, majorly.

Say that six times fast.

FACT:  Nora had memories to share, stories to tell. I could have asked. I could have listened. I could have noticed more than her kind smile, silver hair and arduous gait. I could have briefly paused my life, and learned more about the life of my neighbor.

Loaned her my children. For a week.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

It's possible that if I'd taken the time to engage Nora, she may not have wanted to be engaged. It's also possible that I might have come to know Nora as Winnie - a bright, interesting, talented woman, who was passionate about literature, music, art, travel.  

And what else?

My chance to know Nora has passed. But I'm grateful that I caught a glimpse of her in the stories Carol shared; in the furniture, artwork, and trinkets she loved. 

Nora's spirit will live on in our neighborhood - in my home, in fact -  whenever I read one of the books she collected or press the old keys of the sun-stained piano she played for decades.

At Nora's estate sale, I purchased that relationship. 

How I wish I had cultivated it years before. In Person. Instead.

 

QUING Hereby Decrees:  Neighbors who are simply neighborly may be missing out, majorly. 

Stay tuned for Lesson 2....  

   

  RIP Nora.

LABOR

The laborious days before Labor Day.

Sorting, shopping, wash-and-drying, packing, prepping; 'tis college drop-off time.

Miles and states to cross. Flights of stairs to climb and descend.

Directives and hugs to share. Advice to be formulated, then swallowed. 

Miles and states to be crossed once again.

Unhappily solo.

The laborious days before Labor Day.

Hurry home from far away cities to High-Schooler-to-Be, Big Bro, and melancholy mutts who miss their sissies, and know their bros are soon-to-be MIA, too.

There are novels to be read, calculators to find, shorts and tees to be matched, red pens to be purchased. (Note to Target's Back-to-School-supplies buyer: order more red pens before Labor Day next year!)

Summer. 

I miss you.

You're Glorious.

Chock-full of poetry. Empty of cares.

Firefly gazing, strawberry picking, barbecue hazing. Planting, pruning, picking, pickling.  

Meandering bike hikes, base-running till dark. Swimming beneath stars, secret-spilling by a fire pit.

Waltzing on drenched grass beneath sudden, sweet-smelling downpours.  

Summer.

I love you.

You bid gentle breezes and buzzing insects to lull us to sleep. You season everything with 'sweet'.

Summer kicks Worry to the curb. Tells Concern to take a hike. Sends Anxiety packing from the party.

Labor Day invites them back.

Thirty plus hours in a car over four short days, and I am no longer thinking about hydrangeas to be watered and cantaloupes that must be picked before frost.  

Driving through a landscape shifting from green to gold, I am listening to heated radio talk of Syria, Climate Change, and Cyrus. Learning horrific details of chemical weapons. Contemplating a teenage conversation about the pitfalls of fame. Considering all the change a new school year will bring: will the kids be safe and happy, get inspiring teachers, meet good friends, join the club, make the team, make me nuts?

It's Labor Day, and I am heavy-laden.

How fitting then, that on this close-to-summer's-end afternoon, a poet should challenge all of us who are tired and troubled; his words releasing fear from our fall.  

At today's requiem mass for poet and Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney, Michael Heaney told mourners in Dublin that his father's final words were "in a text message he wrote to my mother just minutes before he passed away, in his beloved Latin and they read: 'Noli timere' – 'don't be afraid.'"

Noli timere. Don't be afraid.

Words to live by each day of every season.

Heaney, a brilliant poet - and extraordinary man - labored all his adult life composing words, thoughts, and phrases that will be read and studied for generations to come. In DIGGING, he reflected on his father and grandfather who worked diligently and expertly, cultivating the earth. Heaney notes that his gift - and labors - would be spent cultivating language that celebrates the earth and its people:   

"....By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man. ....

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog....

...The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it."

Imagine. At the end of a long, distinguished career, just moments before his death, Seamus Heaney wrote five words of comfort and wisdom that may be the most powerful words he would write in his lifetime.

"Noli timere. Don't be afraid."

Words I'll try to to live by each day of every season. 

A poet took his 'pen'. And healed with it.

Au revoir, Summer. Welcome, Fall!

QUING HEREBY DECREES:  I've missed you, dear Reader!  Time, now, to catch up....

BLOOM

Walking I am listening to a deeper way.

Suddenly all of my ancestors are behind me.

Be still, they say. Watch and listen.

You are the result of the love of thousands.  

    Native American Writer Linda Hogan

Shopping, I was listening to a deeper way.

Trapped in the 15 Items or Less line, I watch Frazzled Mom shuffle through a thick packet of coupons as she attempts to manage two feisty toddlers, a shopping cart, and Stinky Baby in Stroller. I channel my Inner Calm.

Which is ridiculous, dear Reader. 

Because if the gift of Inner Calm exists, I never received it.

I did, however, receive the gift of Insightfulness, which means I'm aware that my expression and demeanor can shift at any second from pleasant to, uh, not so pleasant.

I might offer to help Frantic Mom in a way that sounds more snarky than gracious: Would you like me to sort through half that stack of coupons while you sort through the other half? 

Or ask a simple question that could be misinterpreted: Is there a Pampers coupon in that stack?

Instead, I shut up and reach for a magazine, determined not to begin finger drumming impatiently on the gallon of milk I need to purchase. 

Once upon a time I was Frazzled Mom (minus the coupons, plus another kid) but now I am Mom of Teens - closer in age to Grammy with Grandkids than Momma with Toddlers. Mellowed, I am much less likely to mutter under my breath, sigh impatiently, or roll my eyes in grocery store check-out lines (still working on highways and baseball diamonds.)

I'm more likely to wait it out. Much more likely to check for an escape hatch behind me.

Grabbing my gallon of milk, I turn to sneak out of 15 Items or Less line, only to discover that I am being blocked by Old Guy.

Make that Really Old Guy.

Grizzled, grungy, he stands quietly behind me, holding a cane in one hand and a bouquet of tulips in the other. The vibrant pink flowers and green stems are such a startling contrast to the grayness of the man's hair, skin, jacket, shoes, I almost gasp when I look at him.

Really Old Guy knows I want to bolt. An expression in his wise brown eyes tells me to stay put.

I am Insightful. And Observant. I know defeat when it's staring at me.

In a split second I decide that chatting up Really Old Guy might make me forget Stinky Baby in Stroller. Win -win.

"What beautiful flowers," I say.

The man nods. "I wanted to get pink roses," he says. "They're my favorite to buy for her."

I glance past the checkout to tables covered with pots, vases, and containers stuffed with flowers. Hydrangeas. Orchids. Tulips. Daisies. Roses in every color fill their very own table.

"Sir, they sell pink roses here. Do you want me to grab you a bunch?"

Those brown eyes look suddenly wistful. "No, no," he says. "Every payday I used to bring home a dozen pink roses. Perfect flowers for the perfect girl."

That's it. End of sentence. Then a mighty PAUSE.

I ask you, dear Reader, if you're in that grocery store line, how do you respond at such a moment?

Ask Really Old Guy why he stopped buying roses? Ask him what happened to the perfect girl?

Ask me why I'm such a busy-body? (Answer: It's the story. It's always the story.)

Realizing that any follow-up question might result in change of topic from flowers to divorce, unemployment, or death, I know I must punt.  Let the obvious question - and the story - go.

"Well, someone will be very lucky to receive those gorgeous tulips," I say.

"I buy her these so she won't get mad at me," Really Old Guy tells me. "She told me decades ago to stop spending hard-earned money on roses every week because pretty as they were for a few days, they'd soon shrivel and die. She said it was money wasted. Wasn't money to me. Was words."

"Words?" I ask.

"Those roses said what I thought, " he answered.

In that instant, all grocery store annoyance, bustle, stench, and noise disappeared. I could only see and smell countless bouquets of roses delivered to me for birthdays, anniversaries, Mom's Day, Valentine's Day, Any Old Day.

I had always loved the beauty and sentiment of those flowers when Husband gifted them. But, like Really Old Guy's perfect girl, I often thought they were too extravagant. Because in a few days, those flowers would shrivel and die. And we could have spent all that cash on diapers or dinner, sneakers or school supplies.

A writer by trade, I had never considered that those roses were words.

This spring day, trapped in the 15 Items or Less line, I listened to a deeper way.

Really Old Guy behind me, reminding me to Be still. Watch and listen.

Wise Ancestor holding a dozen pink tulips that cautioned, "Accept and embrace love, in whatever color, form or shape it is given."

Lilies of the valley pulled from the dirt by chubby fingers. Bouquets selected by best friends. Roses delivered with a kiss.

I've gratefully - and sometimes not gratefully enough- received them all.

From now on, I'll remember that flowers speak.

Gifted and accepted throughout a lifetime they actually roar: You've been blessed with the love of thousands.  

  
QUING HEREBY DECREES:  Your story enlightens mine. Tell me. 





These gorgeous flowers from beloved friends have lasted long after a birthday passed. Happy Spring!