Won't you be my neighbor?

When I was a little girl, I was even more of a bookworm than I am today, for lack of knowing what else to do. I remember lounging in bed on Saturday mornings, before my parents were up. On such mornings, I often chose an American Girl book from my shelf, as these were easy and brief, able to be devoured in one sitting, like any good breakfast. These books not only entertained me, but they gave flesh and bones to my meager imaginations of American history.

My favorite Girl was Kirsten. She was the daughter of Swedish immigrants, living and farming in the Midwest somewhere. Kirsten, blond hair coiled in braids, got into all sorts of tangles; I especially remember an incident with a black bear. From sitting on the sidelines of Kirsten’s life, I learned about the kind of farm life (albeit romanticized and simplified) that my own great-grandparents experienced but never were able to share with me: immigrants, homesteading, agriculture—even Indians.

This long-tucked-away memory has come floating back to me this week. Our own agricultural enterprise is underway; there’s a small garden plot slowly getting larger as we sift through rubble. Though it’s just the end of March, I’ve got a farmer’s tan well on its way, calluses are forming nicely on my palms, and my arms and shoulders are feeling strong and energized from all the shovel work.

I’ve spent hours out there in the last two weeks, and it’s been really good to labor outside, observing nature at work in various ways. I expected that, and it’s great. There has been a surprise benefit, however. As Dana and I have walked around the corner at the end of the block, we’ve gotten to see some of our neighbors, a family who lives there, in a great, burnt-orange, turn-of-the-century house. The guy has been out working and always turns to greet us with a smile and hello. A week ago we officially met and shared our own general garden missions. This simple situation left my heart warm with goodwill, because this part of town is not typically so friendly. I think people are intimidated into staying inside.

Then there was a neighborly gesture in the form of a kind donation. My friend Alan from the Café responded to my inquiries about fencing by offering just the thing to shut out the two giant dogs who will guard our garden and keep out the little munchy critters: three cattle panels (I didn’t know what they were, but they’re 12-foot long, 4-foot high, steel framed panels). Not only that, but I borrowed my sister’s little red truck for the week, and he loaded and rigged them on tiny truck bed for me so I could make the trek back home. All on his day off.

To complete the endeavor, my dad gave me of those marvelous steel posts you can easily drive into the ground, so I’ll have something to attach the cattle panels to.

Then today, I happened to mention the fact that our wheelbarrow is sick with a flat tire (you know, because I only talk garden these days) in the company of Eddie, Tom and Alan, and Gabriel, another frequenter of the Café. Immediately Gabe piped in and said he’d fix it. He is (among other, very interesting things) a retired race-car driver, and very capable with all things mechanical, so I accepted his offer, and will soon have a functional wheelbarrow.

I feel so wonderfully taken care of by these guys. I’ve been very independent and proud most of my life, unable to acknowledge need or accept help with much grace. But the good Lord has been teaching me, largely through the generosity and neighborliness of these individuals, to receive. When I accept gifts (of the hands and of the heart), I find each time that bonds are strengthened and friendship is formed. From these gifts of fencing and tire repair, I understand that someone stands behind my efforts and believes in what I’m striving for. They, in turn, get the knowledge that they are needed, useful. And let’s be honest: we all need that.

This is what I remember from Kirsten’s community, and they were (I understand) widespread practices in farming communities across the land: barn-raising and corn-husking parties. Men, women, and children would rally together to help each other. There was an understanding of being a body: “If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.”