Lessons From a Grumpy Neighbor

We’ve been next door neighbors for almost 30 years. Back then, we were a young family with three little ones, with another on the way. They were an old couple, despite being around the age of 50. They certainly always seemed old. Perpetual grumpiness does that. All those summer afternoons when my boys would engage in batting practice with crab apples flying into the neighbor’s back yard, we heard about it. When my husband planted mums by our mailbox which butted up to their driveway, the mum plant was mysteriously uprooted and placed in the middle of our driveway. Over the years, our neighborly interactions were limited to one or two sentence salutations as we retrieved our newspapers, or offerings of pleasantry as she weeded her flower garden. Let’s just say, the space between our driveways felt like a vast divide. Despite the lack of meaningful connections, however, my husband would often shovel their driveway after a newly fallen snow or clear the autumn leaves from their path. 

Over the last several years, since her debilitating stroke and subsequent complications, I would seek him out as he walked to retrieve his mail. I’d ask how things were going. I’d ask how I could help, and I’d remind that I’m available. “I live just next door,” I’d say. He’d graciously decline, but offered appreciation for the gesture. I sensed their isolation was becoming more enveloping. I saw groceries being delivered. No longer driving; interaction with the world became limited the television screen constantly streaming, visible from the cul-de-sac we shared. Things felt different, and I felt remorse for their aloneness.

Then, one day after a communal walk to the mailbox, I offered to help again. This time he said yes. He asked if I might be available take him a doctor’s appointment. He complained of severe pain. That appointment led to the next. Within a week, test results confirmed he was riddled with cancer. There would be no treatment. And just like that, 30 years of grumpiness transformed into caring time, where neighborly gestures and comfort of proximity rose to the surface of our relationship like a sweet cream. 

Their sons came home, and perhaps for the very first time, we talked. Some of them I’d never met. We shared tender moments in their kitchen (which I had never been in) about healing presence, comfort care, and the gift of limited time. I made some soup and brought it to him, hoping the love-in-a-pot might appeal to his waning appetite. As my husband and I visited by his bedside, we reminisced about our 30-year tenure as next door neighbors. He knew our kids by name, and laughed remembering the crab apples flying onto their back porch and the multitude of times our dog felt comfortable enough to make their backyard a place of exploration. We held hands and he wept with gratitude for those times his driveway was cleared of snow. All those years I wrote him off as grumpy and aloof; little did I realize how much he was paying attention. I was humbled.

As we left and said perhaps a final goodbye, I realized in the scope of about two weeks, we made whole a very disconnected 30-year neighbor relationship. He taught me. I came away appreciating it’s never too late to bring soup, replace grumpiness with laughter, express gratitude, or heal estrangement by holding hands. I am grateful for his lessons and wish him well as he journeys on. I hope there’s a big pot of love waiting for him.