Neighborly Love

I sent my neighbor a text.

So bizarre, just received this golf glove in the mail. Do you have any use for it?

Response: It’s a golf glove for Eliana.

I was slightly confused but busy and didn’t press the issue. I put the single white glove in the closet, assuming our neighbor was hinting we should expose our 9-year-old daughter to golf because he plays. Neither I nor my husband do, so I carried on as usual after thanking him.

The following day, when I was handling bursty work communication, Eliana lugged a massive box upstairs.

“It’s for me, Mom! What is it? It says my name!” She was excited. The box was the size of her body.

“No idea,” I said. “And it’s not even close to your birthday.” Turned back to email.

Then she started squealing. I hit send and swiveled toward her.

A brand new set of teal golfing clubs. My eyes grew wide.

I grabbed my phone and shot off a message to Stan. “Is this your doing???”

His response:

When I was a little younger than Eliana a guy in the bowling alley gave me a ball,

bag and shoes (my parents didn’t bowl).

I started playing golf with clubs someone gifted me.

When she outgrows this set, she can pass them down.

Tears welled up in my eyes.

“Who sent these to me?” Eliana asked.

“Honey, Mr. Lawrence did,” I said to her. “This is very, very special, do you know that?”

I thought back to a few weeks ago, when I received a litany of questions from Stan.

How tall is she? 

She has great hand-eye coordination. 

Is she playing any baseball or golf? 

The texts had been prompted by her reaction when he threw something over the fence, that we were borrowing for our youngest’s birthday, as neighbors do. Eliana’s response at the time was a flippant, “Mom! Mr. Lawrence threw this at my stomach!”

I sent a string of thoughts:

I love this text. I just grabbed my phone to thank you.

I have no idea how tall she is and she doesn’t play sports rn.

She’s always been great at ice skating and biking. 

A couple of minutes later I received his response:

I tossed it high enough that most kids would have let it drop. 

She gauged it, put both arms out and pulled it into her chest, 

controlling it with her forearms and hands. Never taking her eyes 

off the bag.

Yesterday, she had her first golf lesson in Stan’s backyard. He spent over an hour with her, masked, patiently showing her everything she needed to get started. He’s been sending me links to videos for her to watch and just alerted me to a parks district golf camp for kids.

With four occasionally rowdy kids next door, my husband and I often wonder if they’re bothering this sweet older couple next door, who raised their one child to be the most polite and helpful young college student. With an American culture of independence and privacy, we’ve always tried to maintain a respectful distance. If this were Iran or Puerto Rico where our family is from, neighbor life would likely look quite different. Never did we once stop to think that our neighbors too might yearn for connection.

We have long called this man the neighborhood mayor, even though the real city mayor lives down the block, because he watches out for everyone and everything. He’s the one who, when we moved into our house five years ago, would text to remind me to crank closed the kitchen window at night. He’s the one who alerts us when our garage is accidentally left open. He’s the one who calls when there’s a funny smell and he wants to be sure we are safe. He let me know just last week that someone “with heeled boots” jumped our fence and cut across the yard. We have always respected and adored him.

But this? This was truly special.

Soak in learning from your elders.

Love your neighbors.

Pay it forward.

Slice of Life, Day 8