Get back to neighboring

“Anyone can buy a good house, but a good neighbor is priceless.”

— Old saying that is true now more than ever.

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My neighbors are good folks.

In fact, my neighbors are better neighbors to me than I have been to them lately. I have neglected my neighboring initiatives in recent years. For reasons that aren’t even really good excuses, now that I think about it.

But I did think about it during last Sunday morning’s sermon when the preacher talked about neighbors. Paraphrasing his statements because I don’t remember exactly how he said it, it was something like, “We are living in probably the most connected society in the history of humanity. We can call someone in any country around the globe on a cell phone. Often instantly.

“However, cell phones have also contributed to us becoming the least personally connected society in the history of humanity. They have nurtured a culture that hides behind them, considering face-to-face communication uncomfortable. Often impossible.

“They are likely at least one reason that we do less of what the Bible says we are supposed to do more of. Love our neighbor.”

Research supports that decline in neighboring practices. Studies reports fewer than 25 to 30-percent of us know our neighbors today. Really know our neighbors. Communicate with them and know anything about them.

Unlike times back when we moved to Mount Pleasant. Way before cell phones. When phones were still connected to the wall with a cord. They had rotary dials. And like Henry Ford’s Model T, you could have any color you wantede. So long as it was black. I was in grade school. But I had a transistor radio shaped like a rocket ship which was way cooler than a cell phone. I showed it all my friends at recess.

One of the first people to show up at our Redbud Lane door was the “Welcome Wagon Lady” from the chamber of commerce. She came bearing a warm personal welcome from the chamber and a basket of gifts from local merchants.

The second, third, and subsequent knocks at the door were neighbors. The Wilhites, the Rusts, the Clays. The Halls. And the rest of the neighbors on Redbud. Both sides of the street for a half dozen houses in both directions.

Neighbors that became friends. Visiting face to face. Kid’s playing outdoors, face to face. Participating in real games requiring only imagination and physical exercise. No internet connection needed. Gasp! How did ever survive?

We did. Many of us still friends today.

Living in Abilene as a young adult, the concept had changed very little. We knew our neighbors on both sides, one across the street and one across the alley. Our neighbor on one side was a retired couple from Longview, so we had East Texas connections to talk about. And talk often, we did. More often than not, on the back porch.

Little did we know those evenings of conversations about East Texas and West Texas were not the only connection we were to have. After we left the west Texas city and moved back to East Texas, the couple’s grandson, who lived in another town, married one of my cousins.

Back in East Texas, my first neighbors in Center included the Sanders, Mrs. Walker, and the Clarks across the street. Friends for many years, and I know some of their family members today because we were friends back then. Friends who talked face to face across fences, across yards, or on back porches. Years ago.

Then there was that day more than 30 years ago when I stopped to get a phone number off a “For Sale” sign nailed to a tall pine tree at Lake Murvaul. This tall, gray-haired fellow sauntered over my way from his house next door. “Good fishin’ on this lake,” the old fellow said. “You’ll like it.”

Mr. Bill made working on my newly acquired lake property that summer tolerable. “How ’bout a glass of tea,” he often offered as summer’s sun baked the roof I was repairing. “Come on down,” he’d laugh. “I got a new joke for you.” And no one laughed louder or longer at his jokes than he did.

“Come over for supper later,” he sometimes said as he headed back across the easement that separated our properties. “Katherine’s fixin’ pork chops. I might save you one,” he’d chuckle.

In 2007, when I got the call that my father had passed away from a sudden heart attack on his front porch, I needed someone to sit with Mom. Her memory had been slipping away for several years, and Dad was her caretaker. I called Mrs. Rust, a neighbor and Mom’s good friend from the Redbud Street days. She went to the house and sat with Mom until I could make the two-hour trip to get there.

Earlier this month, I saw one of my current neighbors, Margaret. Not on the street where we live, but attending a parade on the square in downtown Center. She had been on my mind. I was remorseful that she lives next door to me, but I had to see her at a parade to be reminded I had not talked to her in way too long.

We had a short but nice visit at the parade. “I’ll call you,” I told her.

“Do that,” she replied. “We’ll sit on the back porch and visit.”

Note to self … “Get back to being a neighbor. Call Margaret one day this week. Meet her on the back porch. Face to face. No internet connection or cell phone needed. Or wanted.”

—Leon Aldridge

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Aldridge columns are published in these Texas newspapers: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.