On Wednesday, I got on my trusty steed (otherwise known as Blanche II) and headed off to the Redlands library, a beautiful old structure that has since become a place I won’t be going for a while as the mixing and mingling of people is on hold. What you see in the picture above is a glimpse of the street where I live. The place holds a nice collection of neighbors, some of whom I’ve only gotten to know by watching them pass by as I sit at my desk. There’s Margaret who lives next door, with her grandson Matt. She’s been here 15 years and seems to be the keeper of many Village Green stories. She’s also inspiring in me a search for vintage beaded cardigan sweaters because that’s the kind of elegant vibe she gives off. She’s told me how she’s gotten a bit wobbly on her pins after crossing the threshold of eighty, but her smile ain’t wobbly at all. There’s Angie across the street, who is Margaret’s best friend and has also lived here for over a decade. She favors bright pink slacks (yes, they’re slacks of the sort Doris Day wore). I just spotted her off to our shared laundry room wearing a pair that are sunshine on a cloudy day. Bob and Barb live next door to Angie. Their vibe is old-school hippie as only Southern California can deliver. They probably look almost exactly as they did in the 1960s (one long gray braid, one long gray ponytail, two great collections of rock t-shirts). They’ve got this amazing old blue truck that reminds me how cars can survive in this climate much better than they do in the northeast. They walk their dogs a couple of times a day and seem so solid and happy that I feel good just knowing they’re there. They might be my go-to in a crisis (more on that later). There are a handful of others whose names I don’t know (yet), like the family across the street who usually have jazz coming out their car windows as they park—I had forgotten about driving and music. It’s a thing. There’s the lady who walks her dog in the early AM who has such an amazing amount of chic scarves that I might have to see if the one’s my mom lost during her recent move might be in this woman’s drawer.

So, neighbors. Unless you live on a vast expanse of land, you’ve got them too. In NYC, my neighbor was my wonderful friend Elizabeth (Hi!). It was completely random when her real estate broker showed her the place next to ours, which turned out to be a space that seemed like it was literally built for her to live and be creative. Having her there to share the monthly coffee-in-the-morning dates and huddle during an electrical outage was comforting in a way that’s hard to put into words and I truly miss our Lucy/Ethel vibe. When I lived on the LES, my pal Mary (Hi!) lived across the airshaft, which was handy for checking on whether the light was on so maybe a trip to the bar around the corner might be a thing. Now she lives in Long Beach, which isn’t too far away. Yay! And yes, there have been the crazies and the louds, because of course there have. They may have yippy dogs that like to yip. All. The. Time. They may stomp around. Like to yell. To throw parties during early-morning hours. Stuff like that. But still, here we all are. We live on this planet cheek to jowl—unless you live on that aforementioned vast expanse of land.

And now, in these urgent, interesting—as per MW: holding the attention—times, I realize how important it is to pause and look. Pay some mind to this circumference of people and sentients all around and step up rather than away. Mind you, I’m practicing all that self-distancing and handwashing as is most important right now, but if Margaret needs something left at her door (another vintage cardigan perchance), then by-god, I can do that. As for Barb and Bob, my sense is that their house is where all the good survivalist stuff might be so I’m happy they’re there.

Last night while watching the Newshour, Judy Woodruff damn near brought me to tears with this. It’s so true that now more than ever, reaching out (safely. I see that soap at the ready) without the malice that fear can bring is necessary.

What neighbor stories stick in your memory most? Kindnesses? Humorous moments?

My dad just re-jiggered some Bob Dylan lyrics. Please to sing along: “How many times can a man wash his hands, before he feels he’s been cured? The answer my friend, is blowing in the wind.”

Stay Safe, ALL!