When our next door neighbors decided to move down the hill twenty-five years ago, I asked that they find us good new neighbors, and while they were at it, a friend for our eleven-year-old son – and they did. Soon a couple with two adolescent children moved in. They were both ministers, sharing a position at a nearby church. As it turned out, the woman, Robyn, had gone to the same small college in Ohio that I had, and was in the class behind mine. Though we had never met while in college, she knew who I was since she had participated in the prayer vigil held for me at the college on the night when I lay on the precipice between life and death in the small county hospital down the road. We’d had some of the same professors, lived in some of the same dorms, and shared a love of bagpipes. Her husband, Lon, was also an organist and pianist, and was glad to have a piano technician living next door. Best of all, they had a twelve-year-old son. Our sons quickly became best friends, shared a love of D&D and other games, music, and deep conversation. In high school they formed a rock band together. For a while in their early adulthood, they made music as a duo. Throughout those middle school, high school, and college years, they wore a path between the two houses and could be most often found together at one of them. They were best men at each other’s weddings, became fathers at about the same time, and have remained close friends, even though now separated by a thousand miles.
These neighbors became good longtime friends, and even after our boys grew up, the path between the houses remained, as we’d stop in for a chat, care for each other’s plants and animals, share the occasional meal. Even though we’d sometimes go weeks without seeing each other, it was always a comfort seeing the light in the window and knowing they were there. However, the problem with neighbors who become friends is that when one them moves away, as ours did a few weeks ago, the hole left behind is deeper. But despite that, I wouldn’t trade neighbors as friends for anything. I’ve had my share of difficult neighbors as well, so I know how fortunate I’ve been.
My RA Cindy and my two college roommates, Liz and Betsy.
When I was in college, I did a research study on the reasons why people in our residential college became friends. I examined factors of being in the same classes, having the same major, sharing the same interests, being in clubs or sports teams together, but by far the biggest factor I found was proximity. People became friends primarily because they lived close to each other -- in this case, either as roommates or living in the same dorm. That certainly was true for me. My college roommate and I became good friends and with the young woman in the room next door became quite the trio who went on to live together the next year as well. Our RA on our freshman dorm floor has remained a dear friend over the past fifty years.
When you’re little, often your playmates are friends in the neighborhood. I strongly remember at the age of two being taken by my mother to a friend’s house just around the corner from ours. They had a two-year-old boy, who became my first friend. I mostly remember playing with stick horses in his backyard, but I know we spent a lot of time together when we were little. We went to grade school and high school together, then went our separate ways, but when we saw each other for the first time in nearly forty years at our high school reunion, we ran up to each other and held on to each other tightly without wanting to let go, both of us saying, “You were my very first friend, You are my oldest friend in life!”
When I was five, new neighbors moved in next door. They had two older daughters, my sister’s age and older, but they also had a seven-year-old girl. Kay and I quickly became close friends, going back and forth between each other’s houses constantly. We played dolls together, and dress-up, and four-square, and PIG, went to the playground, rode bikes, and shared secrets. And then, Kay grew up before I did, and I became somewhat of a third wheel sixth-grader with her eighth-grade friends. When she went on to high school, we parted ways. Yet several years later, she played the flute at my wedding, and I will always be grateful for having such a good friend right next door all those years.
One of the lovely aspects of having a cabin in the family for over sixty years is the long-term friendships that connect us to the place as well. My friendships there came mostly from proximity. All of us live in the Wildwood Harbor area of the lake, up and down the shore from each other, just a few docks away, an easy paddle. When I was back at our cabin a few weeks ago, I was glad to see my friend, Joanie, who was my closest friend there when I was fifteen and sixteen. We were together morning, noon, and night. Here we were still, sixty years later. A couple docks down, I visited with Mary Ellen and Alison, and their 96-year-old mother whose parents were such good friends of my parents. Our parents’ friendship was formed a century ago from their days in Detroit and Camp Westminster, but the friendships among my generation were forged from living so close to each other. The social culture on the lake in those days was quite different from the suburbs, where people would call ahead, make plans to get together. On the lake, friends just dropped by any time, which was facilitated by all of us living so close to each other. It was easy. One of our neighbors who became friends was a couple my parents’ age. Heide was the football coach at Wesleyan University and Enid was a house mother in one of the dorms or houses on campus, and was the most welcoming person I’d ever met. I’d never known a grown-up who was so interested in a young person. She taught me how to play Casino, and I’d stop in nearly every day, where she’d welcome me in her long brown fleece robe, offer me a Vernor’s or an orange Nesbit, and we’d sit and chat or play cards. We remained friends the rest of their lives.
The Barkers lived at the end of the harbor. They had several children, including two boys my and my brother’s ages, both of whom became summer loves at different times – it’s complicated – but their mother, Jane, became my dearest friend. I ran into the Barkers on the road shortly after my mother died, and I told Jane that she would need to be my mother now, and she did and more. They lived in Florida, but we wrote each other regularly, and spent many hours together whenever I’d get to Michigan in the summers. We stayed with them in Orlando when I took my son to Disneyworld. The timing was either unfortunate or fortuitous, perhaps both, as Judge Barker’s health took a turn for the worse while we there, and on the evening before our last day, he died at home. I’m glad I was able to be with them in those final few days, and that I could be with Jane during that time, but also didn’t want to be an imposition on their family, but she always made me feel like family. We remained close friends for the rest of her life. For various reasons, none of the Barkers were at their cabin this summer, and the place didn’t feel quite right because of it. Neighbors who become friends make a place a home.
Darrell and Nancy
I’ve lived in my current home for over forty years, so have seen neighbors come and go. Some I barely know, but others have become the best of friends, and for those I am so very grateful. When Darrell started building the dome home across the street, cutting down the trees and destroying what had been the view I loved of the forest, I was upset. But then we connected over the fact that he was from the same part of Ohio I was. They were living several miles away while he was building the house, so I didn’t meet his wife, Nancy, for a few months. The day I did turned out to be her birthday, so I asked her over for dinner. That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. She was a cardiac nurse, and was on duty in the CCU when I was brought in by ambulance with a cardiac arrest. From that time on, she slept with her clothes next to the bed, ready to come help should we need her in the middle of the night, which we did from time to time. On the night I was called to come for the transplant, she came over and took care of our sleeping then four-year-old son while Dave and I went to the hospital to wait for the helicopter. She was there for me every time the defibrillator went off. On the night I accidentally overdosed on my meds, and I took Ipecac to throw up the extra pills, she slept next to me in my bed in case I arrested again. We were more than friends. We were family. And then, the day came thirty some years later, that they, too, moved away. I was so sad that day, so I casually went on Petfinder to look at puppies. My beloved dog, Charlie, had died six months earlier, and I had no intention of getting another dog ever, but then that day I saw his sweet face looking right at me – a puppy named “Hippie” and he was in Northfield. I’ve always told Nancy they are responsible for my getting my sweet dog, Ben, a few days after they moved away.
How could I resist that face?
I could go on – about my neighbor, Julie, whom I met in the line to vote. I imagine we cancelled out each other’s votes, but despite our political differences, we’ve remained good friends and walking buddies, and whenever she’s out working in her garden she’s glad when I stop to chat. Or about Matt and Megan, who only lived next door for a few years, but their dog Bennett spent as much time at our house as theirs it seemed. They were a sweet young couple who birthed two boys at home during their time here, and again, we were sad to see them go. Or about Heather – our neighbor’s daughter, named for our street, who became our friend and trusted dogsitter for many years – the only one with whom I could think of leaving our dear Charlie during his last difficult days when we had to leave for a couple days for our son’s wedding. Or about Jean and Jerry, our previous next door neighbors, who were also our close friends. In addition to Jerry being our son’s pediatrician, he also would come help me through cardiac crises in the years I was waiting for a transplant, and Jean and I visited often. But none of us was as close as our dogs, Molly and Sam, who were sweet on each other. Molly came over to be with Sam nearly every day.
Sam and Molly
How could I ever have been so lucky to have such good, trusted, and caring neighbors, all of whom became friends and family to us. The house next door is for sale again. It’s always a little unnerving getting new neighbors. How will we get along? Will we be amicable? Or will we clash over noise or fireworks or lights or dogs or property lines or politics – the last being especially concerning in this climate? Or will we live the miracle once again -- of neighbors who become friends.