Neighbors

I’m not as close to my neighbors as I would like. And it seems to be getting worse instead of better. I was reminded of that today when the little neighbor girl came knocking, looking for a donation to the heart disease fund so that she could win a soccer ball. (“Your money will help cure heart disease and stuff.”)

I used to chat with this little girl semi-regularly, along with some other residents of the hood, but things have noticeably slowed down since my ladyfriend stopped coming around. The ladyfriend, being the sweet, personable girl she is, was my lone defense against seeming like the neighborhood weirdo whom nobody should let their kids near.

This got me thinking about my next door neighbor, Miss Gerry, who passed away in November. I remembered that I had written about my first encounter with her back when it happened two years ago, but never got around to posting it. I’ve cleaned it up and put it below, along with a postscript at the end.

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Today I came home to a surprise. Skipping up to the door (yes, I skip), I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. It was my 77 year-old next door neighbor, Miss Gerry, waving her arms over her head, sprawled out on her driveway.

Apparently her waving was not clue enough as I instinctively yelled “DO YOU NEED HELP?,” as if a 77 year-old woman hangs out on her wet driveway for pleasure.

The snow from a couple days earlier was melting in the 50 degree weather, but areas hidden from the sun remained snow-covered, and, in places, icy. This explains why she was “hanging out” on her driveway.

I shook off my stupid question and sped over like an Olympic walker.

Up to this point, I hardly knew Miss Gerry. The extent of our relationship consisted of polite waves from a distance. Miss Gerry, I later learned, is a Durham native, raised on a tobacco farm, and has lived in this same house next to mine for most of her adult life. Her husband passed away 21 years ago, and she has been getting by on her own, with occasional visits from her son in Norfolk.

To my great relief, Miss Gerry looked in good spirits. Her white pants were dirty, but the smile on her face matched that of the snowman on her bright red sweater. She had slipped on a thick sheet of ice on her way to the mailbox, and landed flat on her bum. She had scootched away from the ice, but with her history of knee replacements, was unable to help herself up. She had been sitting out there for 40 minutes waiting for someone to notice her.

Then came the hilariously awkward part: helping her up. She prepped herself by putting her feet flat on the cement and taking a deep breath. “Are you sure you can lift me? I weigh 160 pounds.” She was afraid I would throw out my back or something. She instructed me not to pull; she would do the pulling. I took my basketball stance with knees bent and butt out. She pulled with all her might but could not get lift. After a few seconds she had had enough, and reclined for a breather.

A couple minutes and a few of my obnoxious questions later she was ready to go again. This time she would try to pull herself up using my leg. If it worked, I thought, this would be both the most miraculous and most hilarious lift-up in the history of Durham County. Her tug was weak and came nowhere near the force necessary for lift off. I felt pathetic not knowing what to do with my hands as this woman weakly grappled at my leg. Anyone watching must've felt pity for both of us. I didn't know whether I should be offering soothing encouragement or delivering an impassioned pep-talk. Neither seemed likely to help. I gave her a hand to pull on, but still, nothing. She reclined again, trembling and frustrated, and my mind raced for solutions.

Next Miss Gerry instructed me to grab a chair from the kitchen. I, too, thought that would be a good plan since she would probably need to sit down immediately upon standing. Miss Gerry repeatedly advised caution as I crossed the ice to the kitchen. It was damn slick. I nearly ended up on my ass along with her.

Immediately after setting the chair next to her, she started tugging on the bar underneath the seat, trying to help herself up. This could not go on, I thought. I could not stand here watching this poor woman struggle so mightily. I was either going to call for help or do it myself.

Then it finally occurred to me that I did not know the reason why she had instructed me not to pull. So I asked, "will you let me pull you up?" She questioned again whether I could, but she eventually obliged. Apparently she was just being polite in asking me not to pull – she did not want me to hurt myself.

A couple of seconds later she was on her feet, looking dizzy but relieved. We both were. She sat on the chair as I cleared the ice with her 4 year old virgin shovel.

I am now forcibly taking over her mail-gathering duties, and I will visit her every day hence. I checked with her again tonight and she is doing OK – a bruised bum, some soreness and dizziness, but majorly thankful and lucky to not have broken a hip or some other bone. She keeps promising lemon and/or pineapple cake once she feels better. Pineapple cake would be great, but the real prize I’m hoping for is getting to know my next door neighbor, sweet Miss Gerry.

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Postscript:

Okay, back to modern day. Miss Gerry made good on her promise of pineapple cake. And I made good on my promise to visit her every day… for a while.

I learned about all of her kids and grandkids. I learned about the history of the neighborhood, and about how the previous resident of my house, a woman who was a friend of Gerry’s, died in what is now my living room. No ghost sightings yet, unfortunately or fortunately. I learned about Gerry’s many health ailments, including graphic detail about the one that was giving her the most trouble, her bladder cancer.

And that last part is probably the reason why I stopped visiting her. I am a pretty intensely squeamish dude, and so visiting her became almost as fraught with distress as visiting an emergency room.

And then inertia set in. I hadn’t visited her for 3 days, 8 days, 3 weeks, 5 months, 1 year, and the awkwardness of the imagined re-encounter kept building. If I go over and see her now, how the eff do I explain myself? And so I didn’t. My stomach sank every time I looked in the direction of her house.

Miss Gerry, for a while, was like my stand-in grandmother. My actual grandmother, the person whom I loved and adored so dearly, who was having health issues of her own, was 600 miles away in Ohio. Taking care of Gerry was my way of vicariously taking care of my grandmother.

I regularly talked about Grandma with Gerry and about Gerry with Grandma. They never got to meet, but my grandmother regularly commented on how sweet it was that I was helping out my neighbor lady. That meant more to me than she knew.