Do you neighbor?

Do you neighbor?

I remember as a kid, my parents knew our neighbors. They might not have liked them, they maybe thought they were a bit noisy, but they knew them.

The neighbors certainly knew me and my brother.

Like the time when the girl across the street, (she had the coolest basement, ever! It had a disco ball and jukebox, and we use to roller skate around on the tile floor. I thought it was so awesome.) But, when I spilt my cherry (see, bright, bright food colored dyed red) Icee all over her grandpa’s newly cemented driveway, he was certainly comfortable enough to tell me to get the hell home. In fact, I do believe those were his exact words. Yeah, he was pissed. Can’t say as I blame him. As an adult though, it does make me chuckle. I mean, I think I was all of 5-years-old how were my little hand supposed to hold onto that big, big Icee?

When I got my first bike I was six and it was on Easter Sunday. I came home from Sunday school and there it was, glistening in the sunny spring air. *ting* I can still see the sun glistening off the handlebars. It was a red, white, and blue bike. Very patriotic. In fact my roller skates were red, white, and blue, too. Hmm, I’m noticing a theme. Well, it was the 80’s.
So, back to my bike.
The seat, no, no, the banana seat, was red, white, and blue, and the tassels that hung from the handlebars were red, white, and blue and the basket to come later was white with red and blue flowers. Oh, yeah.
There I was trying to learn how to ride my bike. I’d turn the pedals a few turns and then stop, which of course meant I crashed. The whole neighborhood came out to watch me pedal and crash all. day. long. All day. Have I ever mentioned how stubborn I am? Well, I am and it showed up at a very early age. I was bound and determined to learn how to ride my spiffy new bike that day. Right then and there in front of my parents, my brother, my house, and the whole neighborhood in their swank 1980’s hairdo’s and clothes.

It seriously took me all day to learn how to not stop pedaling in order to keep my balance therefore, ensuring the momentum of the bike wouldn’t topple over on me. Finally, Darwin, the hot kid next-door who I use to spy on from my bedroom window, the one who I use to watch as he undressed without him knowing that my 6-year-old eyes were watching him, that guy? Yeah, he finally hopped on the back of my banana seat and he was my balancer. He kept the bike steady so I could pedal the bike and keep my balance at the same time. With the help of Darwin and lots and lots of stubbornness on my part, I don’t even think I took a bathroom break let alone a lunch break, but I mastered my bike. Much to the delight of my parents and the rest of the neighborhood who came out to watch me that day.

Some months later, while I was doing figure eight’s with my bike in the middle of the street at the top of a hill, right where I was in a blind spot to any and all oncoming traffic, and where a car could easily turn onto the street and kerplat me, the neighbor lady who was also my babysitter, told me that wasn’t such a good idea.
Oh, okay.
Down the hill I flew on my patriotic bike (now complete with a basket) and I did figure eight’s in the middle of the street, at the bottom of the hill. Much safer.

Some time even later, when I was riding my bike in the middle of the street (noticing a theme?) while wearing my pink corduroy bellbottom pants and showing off for the teenage boys at the end of the street only to end up with my pink corduroy bellbottom pants stuck in my bike chain. It was only when I was lying sideways in the middle of the street did the cute teenage boys see me and came to my rescue! Sadly, they couldn’t unlatch my pink bellbottom corduroy pants from my bike chain. So they did the next best thing; they carried me, still with my pant leg stuck in my bike chain, home to my mom. One boy had me in his arms the other boy had my bike in his arms. (Oh, yeah. I had those boys right where I wanted them. This was my plan all along.) *ding, dong* went the doorbell. “Oh, hi Mom.” My mom unstuck me. Moms are good at that.

As an adult when my mom and step-dad moved into their current house the next-door neighbor was a fixture. In fact he’s known as, Neighbor John. Neighbor Bill lived across the street. Neighbor John was always over. My step-dad liked that Neighbor John would just pop over and sit with my step-dad in the garage. I liked him because he referred me to my current job. I love my current job.
Then, Neighbor John moved and Neighbor Bill died.
Now, the new neighbors aren’t so neighborly.

The neighbors in my apartment building, I’d say there are probably around 40 people who live just in my building of that I know four. Now, by ‘know’ I mean I say, ‘good morning’ to them and they know my name. That’s it. Four.

Yeah, neighbors. They’re a funny thing when you’re a kid. You don’t give them much thought. As an adult I’m finding I don’t give them much thought because I don’t know them.