We lived next door to John and Lill for decades. They lived in their house since the late 1950’s and raised three boys. When we moved next to them, their children had long since left and had families of their own. Lill was born and raised just a few blocks away and never desired to leave the neighborhood. John is originally from Boyceville, Wisconsin and always wanted to move out to the suburbs but they never did. He was a quiet man, but not a shy man. He was always very warm with us and acknowledged all the neighbors who crossed his path. We talked a lot about the things next door neighbors talk about like cutting the grass and if we plan to mulch it, bag it, or let it fly that day, why our lawn mowers are burning more oil, squirrels and the damage they do, illusive hummingbirds, his sore knees, my sore back, the heat, our kids, and the duck his family had as a pet in the nineteen-seventies.
Sometimes John and I had conversations on our shared alley driveway too and by the time we finished, we would have traveled five to ten feet. After many years of this, it finally dawned on me what was happening. He was slowly backing up while we talked, and I was slowly advancing to maintain the same relative distance, not realizing his slow-motion retreat was an intentional, defensive move, because I was loud and invading his personal space. Eventually he would say, “ok, you’re busy and I have to go now,” then turn and disappear inside.
I also realized one afternoon while I was in our backyard that John was a smoker. I enjoy the smell of cigarette smoke and did then too as it drifted over the fence, followed by him exiting their garage moments later. I mentioned that I didn’t realize he smoked, and he said, “yeh. Lill is happier when I don’t smoke in the house.” I told him I’d quit a few years earlier, otherwise I would’ve asked to join him. Eventually he did invite me into their garage periodically to talk about a small appliance he was fixing, show me his collection of lawn mowers, or offer me an old tool that he had duplicates of. I usually declined and thanked him for offering, but during his last few years, I always said yes. I finally realized it wasn’t about whether we needed or wanted whatever it was. It was about accepting his gift.
In the years after John passed away, we spent more time visiting with Lill in her living room, or on her deck when she was dosing in the afternoon sun. If one of us was in the yard, sometimes she’d wave us over to talk about her garden and the crimson hollyhocks that were taller than all of us. The last time I sat in the sun with her she asked me to join her inside for a minute. We went through the kitchen, into the living room, and she sat down in her chair and turned on the nightly news. Then she pointed to her collection of small ceramic angels, explained where most of them came from and said she wanted us to have one, so I should choose. Then she turned back to the television, and I spent a minute or two looking for the plainest angel. It was white with silver accents and when I showed it to her and asked if this one was OK to have, she smiled and said, “perfect.”
Songs :: In My Life by Johnny Cash, Fish and Whistle by John Prine, and Transcendental Blues by Steve Earle
© C. Davidson