When I moved into my house, the first person I met was a little old lady who lives up the street. She stopped by to introduce herself. We chatted for a few minutes. I told her I had just come off the road, was recently widowed, and was essentially starting over from scratch.
She told me she was one of the “founding members” of my neighborhood, was 86 years old, widowed a few years earlier and was part of the Welcome Wagon committee. Then she said, “We have the same model house – you should come by my home to see what it looks like with furniture.”
I did demurely replied that I would stop by sometime. She grabbed my arm and said, “Come on over now.”
So as not to offend this sweet old lady, I accepted.
That was two and a half years ago. That was the day she “adopted” me.
Since then, I’ve visited with her more than a dozen times. Sometimes she needs a favor – like a piece of furniture moved or landscaping advice. Other times, she wants to tell me about her grandchildren and show me pictures. During the holidays she bakes me homemade cookies, bread and muffins. Once when she was in the hospital, she sent one of her girlfriends over to my house to drop off a freshly baked cake.
Sometimes I’ll walk her to the mailbox while listening to her gossip about the neighbors. On summer evenings, I’ll sit with her on the front porch while she updates me on her current health issues.
During the pandemic, I worried that she’d be too isolated. Her age, her declining health and covid all added up to a fairly bleak outlook for her.
I needn’t have worried. She has people visiting her every single day – family, friends, neighbors and I suspect a few “adopted strays” like myself.
I see her leave gift bags of homemade cookies on the garbage can for the garbage men regularly. I see her make her way slowly down the street to drop off food for other neighbors. There’s a constant stream of cars pulling in and out of her driveway as visitors come and go.
She’s got a more active social life than anyone else on our block.
When I moved here, I wasn’t looking to make friends with senior citizens with whom I have little in common. In fact, if you’d told me that was a possibility, I’d have laughed and said I would purposely avoid this to prevent being roped into becoming the neighborhood handyman.
As it turns out, I’m happy to help my neighbors when they need it – which is rare. Most often, what I have to offer is the same thing they offer me – a warm greeting, a check in to see how we’re doing, a smile and a wave. It’s actually quite lovely.
I moved so many times in my life that I’m used to barely recognizing my neighbors. These past few years it’s been different. I’ve gotten to know most of them – including this little old lady.
I’m happy to call her my 86 year old girlfriend.