No More Perfect Icon than a Neighbor

There were exactly two things on my to-do list.

I was going to sit and write, not only my daily writing but also working on my book that I’ve neglected for months. And I was also going to clean the house. The kitchen in particular was getting shocking.

Michael was at a ten-hour shift and Adrienne was in school, which meant that I had the place all to myself. I was excited to get a lot done–writing first, then cleaning the house. It’s much easier for me to buzz around cleaning the house when Michael and Adrienne aren’t underfoot, as they hate the cheery pop music I blast on the television while I clean. This would be the perfect day to catch up on work. I came downstairs, let the cat out to enjoy the sunshine, and got on the computer.

The first thing I saw was a  text message from Adrienne, reminding me that I’d promised to bake cupcakes for Jimmy’s boy as a belated birthday gift– and also to let her sneak a few.

The second was a text from the mother of the Baker Street Irregulars, asking if I could take her to the food pantry. Not the one in town, which hasn’t had good pickings of late, but the good one several miles away at the United Methodist church. That food pantry was only open once a month, only in the morning, and it closed in an hour.

I was out the door in a moment, nearly tripping over the cat.

Next thing I knew,  my neighbor and I were flooring it on the freeway heading north, shouting at each other to be heard over the roar of the air from the open windows because Jimmy the Mechanic hadn’t gotten around to re-charging the air conditioner yet. We shouted, personably, about how expensive the groceries were lately, and how the youngest Baker Street Irregular had decided to be a vegetarian which was saving money. We shouted about the disabled Baker Street Irregular, who is doing a bit better at school but needs another round of genetic tests. We shouted about how excited the children were to take a three-day weekend: the high school basketball team had a chance at the state championship on Friday, so the school district was treating the occasion like a national holiday. Finally, she shouted “There it is!” and we pulled in to the Methodist church, where friendly retirees filled the car with food.

We thanked them, and turned around and drove south, shouting personably again. The mother of the Baker Street Irregulars sorted out the food that she would definitely eat and gave me the rest as a thank-you for taking her on such short notice. It took three trips back and forth to the car to bring my share of the heavy boxes inside. Twice, the cat darted in the open door and sat on the upstairs landing just to taunt me. She knows she can’t be upstairs because of Michael’s allergies. She is allowed to be outside on the porch and in the garden, and in her basement playroom with the side door to get in and out. I left the boxes in the hallway as I shooed her back out.

When I finally got the cat out, I put the perishable food away, and left the cardboard boxes of apples and cantaloupe and random canned things in the foyer. I whipped up a batch of confetti cupcakes for Jimmy’s boy. After I threw them in the oven, I realized I hadn’t even had breakfast and it was past lunchtime. By the time the cupcakes came out, it was time to get Adrienne from school. I leaped over the boxes like an Olympic runner, and nearly tripped over the cat yet again.

When we got back, Jimmy’s boy was waiting for us. I presented him with a plate of cupcakes, which he graciously accepted. Then he helped me sort through some more of the food boxes, asking if he could have a cantaloupe and a can of soup to take home. He asked to help me plant the tomato seeds that were in packets scattered on the dining room table, so I started soaking the peat pellets while I explained which breed of tomato was which. I told him that the packet he identified as peppers was actually San Marzano paste tomatoes, famous for delicious sauces. The little round black ones were chocolate cherries, good for sauce and for eating raw. The orange ones were Virginia Sweets, which tasted almost like a pineapple. The yellow were Yellow Pears, sharp and tangy like lemons. The purple were Cherokee and Black Krim, excellent for sandwiches. As I gave him his botany lesson, he got out Adrienne’s old toys to play with and discard, until the living room was a minefield. I finally got him shooed out the door in time to go pick up Michael from his shift.

When I got there, I found that Michael had to stay two extra hours to cover a sick co-worker’s shift.

Adrienne and I ran our errands without him.

We got home in twilight, with a bag of cold food from the restaurant. I’d barely eaten my salad before there was another knock at the  door.

It was Jimmy’s boy one more time, asking to go for an evening walk together. I told him I could really only go around the block once. He wheedled me into two blocks. As we rounded the bend, he saw a whole gaggle of his good friends, zooming back and forth on bikes, roller blades and skateboards. These are friends he doesn’t get to play with very often, because they’re outside of the one-block radius where he’s allowed to go by himself. He needs a grownup to take him this far.

My heart sank as his heart soared. Jimmy’s boy has been lonely ever since the Artful Dodgers disappeared. He’s desperately wanted to run around with neighborhood children, but he only gets to do it once in awhile. He needed a good play as much as he needed water or food. But I was so exhausted I felt as if I would have to crawl home. I was so exhausted that I didn’t step out of the way fast enough when one of the children accidentally rammed into me with a bicycle. After that I sat on the curb, scrolling on my phone, as the children all played together.

Twilight turned to dusk and then night. The clear outlines of children turned into shadows of children, with the lights from their roller blades and bicycle reflectors twinkling like satellites.

The children squabbled over what planet they saw coming out low in the sky– one little girl insisted it was the North Star even though it was low in the western sky.  Jimmy’s boy, thanks to my teaching him on our evening walks, correctly identified it as Venus. They played basketball, with one little girl attempting to dribble the ball while rolling back and forth on her rollerblades. They tossed the ball and laughed and argued until it was quite dark, and they were called in for bedtime.

I walked Jimmy’s boy back to his house.

I let the cat in for the night, stepping over those boxes again. The foyer was nearly impassable. The living room was cluttered and dusty. The kitchen was worse than ever, with the sink full of batter-coated mixing bowls. Michael was asleep on the sofa with half his dinner still beside him on the end table, and Adrienne was getting ready for bed. I hadn’t written a word all day.

I sat with the cat in the basement, too worn out to go to bed myself.

If I never do finish that book: well, just know that I’ve found a happy life in Appalachia.

If I am ever remembered for anything, I hope it’s for the people I’ve met here, people who make my life worth living. Knowing these people has made all the difference. Showing them to the world through what writing I manage to finish is a joy. Humans are the image and likeness of God. You will never see a more perfect icon, than a neighbor who needs your help at an inconvenient time.

If you learn anything from me, I hope it’s that the people around you are worth the mess and the exhaustion.

Life is good.