Have you been a good neighbor lately?

I spent some time picking up trash in the yard today. Not my trash; the neighbors’ trash. I don’t think any of my neighbors are particularly sloppy or anything, I think it’s mostly the fault of dumpsters stuffed too full or getting tipped in the wind and maybe occasionally my big empty lot on the corner looks to passers-by like a nice place to chuck a bottle or two. Anyway… no hard feelings for the neighbors particularly, just lots of time spent thinking about what it means to be a neighbor.

We’ve lived here for nearly nine months. I know the (first) names of seven neighborhood kids, the surname of the family across from us (they have it carved in a nice big rock in the yard), and I’ve waved enough to the guy on the corner that I actually recognize him when I see him in public now (I think). I’m doing way better than I did in our last house. We lived there for three years and, though I exchanged friendly greetings from the yard and the mailbox with the neighbors on either side of us, I never could call them by name.

I guess I’m not entirely comfortable with city living. I grew up in the country. It was my grandmother who lived next door. My aunt and uncle lived next door to her. Down the road there were cousins and another uncle. The few non-relatives on the road referred to us as Hooterville. I knew my neighbors growing up… but they weren’t close enough to throw a stick at.

The hubby and I lived in Houston for almost five years. Sometimes I think that’s where I went wrong. Our first neighbor (we lived upstairs, she lived down) befriended us and let us know that if we heard her hitting her ceiling with a broom, to please call the cops because that meant her boyfriend was beating her up. No kidding. It even happened once. Not the actual beating part. The boyfriend happened to show up on a day hubby’s father and brother were visiting. They simply stood at the top of the stairway, put on their intimidating faces, and the boyfriend took off.

Later, there was a little girl I started chatting with at the mailboxes each day. I got to know her mother. She started stopping in to use our phone. And then she took off with my wallet one day. Needless to say, I stopped being friendly.

One time my parents came to visit and my mother was deeply disturbed by the fact that I didn’t know my neighbors. She set out to introduce herself (and me). I know she meant well, but it was all I could do to stop her from just randomly knocking on doors and inviting herself in. Don’t get me wrong, I would rate Houston as a fairly friendly place, but it’s not necessarily the case that everyone wants to know your name, at least not in the area we lived in. Greetings in the parking lot are acceptable. Dropping in for tea is not.

Sometimes I picture myself as that friendly Mayberry neighbor. I think I might like to be the one who distributes cupcakes and cookies on the holidays (if only I made cupcakes and cookies on holidays). Perhaps I could be the one who could be counted on to pick up the mail or feed the dog when you are gone for the weekend. It would be nice to be the one who brings chicken soup when you’re feeling under the weather.

I do have those types of friends. Maybe not here… not yet, but I understand that it takes some effort I have not yet put forth. It’s just too bad that those friends, when you make them, don’t usually also happen to be your next-door neighbor.

After I’d loaded nearly five Wal-Mart bags with trash today (not fresh bags, I picked the bags from the trash in the yard and then proceeded to fill them) I went a little further and picked a couple of bags worth from the neighbor’s lot, as well. It’s an empty lot, but I imagine quite an eyesore for the folks who live across from it. I think next I’m going to start on the fence line between our neighborhood and the railroad. It catches loads of trash.

It’s not cake or cookies or a nice hot bowl of soup on a rainy day, but it seems like a nice neighborly thing to do.