My northside neighbor, Gerald, died recently. I say northside because my wife and I reside in a rural county. We’re not isolated by any means—I can see three houses from my front porch, each within a comfortable walking distance. But we’re not subdivision close. Gerald’s place is to the north.
Gerald and Sandra, his wife of nearly six decades, were the first people we met when we moved into our current home. They weren’t the sellers of the property, but they had something to do with the property transfer. They made us immediately feel welcome. That was worth more than I can explain here.
Although we were neighbors for more than a quarter-century, Gerald and I did not become close friends. We were neighborly friendly, which, in its own way, supersedes a close friendship. He was a quiet, hard-working man who kept his own counsel, took care of his place, minded his own business, and expected the same from others. He was also a guy who, if help or assistance was needed and summoned, would be at your door in 60 seconds—day or night, summer or winter, rain or sunshine—ready to help, no questions asked.
Gerald retired twice: once from his day job of 25 years, and once from the farm he worked as meticulously as the closely trimmed lawn that surrounds his house, barn, outbuildings and pond.
The pond, which has a riprap bank and is so well kept it’s akin to fishing in town, harbors catfish and bluegill. Some of the catfish are eye-popping size. Gerald fed them regularly. Many of the bluegill are hand-size and scrappy. Early on, I asked for permission to fish it. Permission was granted and regularly put to use. It’s where my daughters largely learned to fish … and occasionally still do. A child’s request to go to “Mr. Gerald’s” always included a fishing rod. He was always happy to see us.
One neighborly encounter stands out. Several years ago, not long after Gerald’s retirement from his day job, my daughter Rebecca and I had some errands to run. We turned north out of our driveway and drove slowly past Gerald’s house. He was seated in a lawn chair in his front yard cradling a shotgun. Without looking our way, he threw up a friendly wave as we passed. This did not strike me as the least bit unusual, even though I was aware that in some parts of the country such a display would result in a SWAT team response. My daughter watched Mr. Gerald until we crested a small hill and he vanished from sight.
We rode in silence for a couple of miles. Rebecca, quiet and introspective as both a child and adult, said nothing. My curiosity finally bested me.
“You don’t see many guys sitting in the front yard with a shotgun,” I ventured. “What’d you think Mr. Gerald was doing?” (It was a trick question. I knew a mole had invaded his yard, and Gerald, who was particular about his lawn, was determined to remove the critter.)
We continued on in silence long enough that I’d begun to think no response was coming.
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “But it’s Mr. Gerald. So, it’s OK.”
As we head into what seems likely to dissolve into a winter of discontent (see also page 44), a season soaked in post-election rage, frustration and political uncertainties while shrouded with the lingering dread and hovering threat from COVID-19, I will miss my neighbor. We could use more folks like Gerald. A lot more. Don’t take these neighbors—ones who cloak their steel-spined dependability with a soft-spoken, quiet demeanor—for granted just because they’re always there. Someday, they won’t be. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.