On helping others . . .

My next door neighbors on the west side of my house are moving. They have been the most interesting set of neighbors we have ever had.

When we moved here four years ago, Annette ran over to welcome us and say hello. She had heard we had four kids and I think she envisioned play dates and play mates. The disappointment on her face was visibly obvious when she heard the ages of my kids. She had two little girls, four and two.

That was the last time I talked to her.

I'm not kidding.

I won't go into detail, but over the years, we were shown how to be friendly with them an arm's length away. It was the most awkward and uncomfortable situation for Daren and I . . . EVER!!!

Protocol was something like: smile and wave as we pass each other by car, chat briefly about the weather at the mailbox, shoveling snow and taking out the trash. When in the backyard grilling, either pretend like you don't know the other is there or wave and your duty is fulfilled. It was weird and uncomfortable to say the least, especially when all the other neighbors were over for a barbeque or frequent get together, but we complied and stayed an arm's length away . . .

until, Monday.

What was I thinking? The husband called on Monday to confirm that Andrew would now mow their lawn once a week because they are all moved out, (which is another story in and of itself - watching them move beds and dressers and NOT be allowed to help.) I confirm and proceed to tell the tree company came by the day before and cut down the tree in their front flower bed and it looked great, but there were now some euyonomous plants that were now looking like they needed a simple trim. Would he like me to do it so they don't have to drive back over here . . . "Sure," he say, along with words like, "thanks" and "how nice."

So, I go over there to trim the few little branches which are climbing up the brick and across the front porch. Don't picture some totally overgrown plant, it was going to take me all of five minutes to do. Five minutes. Really, what are the odds that in five, ten minutes Annette would come back to the house. 1 in a 100? Well, it happened. I must be the luckiest person in the world to beat odds like that.

She was on the phone when she rounded the corner and approached the house. Of course, I couldn't hear her, but I read her lips and knew it was my name she was saying to whomever was on the phone. She parked the car and hung up. And that was when I started my speech . . .please, don't be mad . . . I offered to Kent by the phone a minute ago . . . I was only trying to help . . .

I heard her say things like . . . I'm mortified . . . you don't have to do this . . . I can't believe my husband . . . you have other things to do . . . we can call our gardener . . .

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Okay, so here's how the story ended.

I still don't know.

We talked as we cleaned up my clippings; about how the house was showing, where their new place is, and about how they miss the neighbors here. (WHAT THE??) She showed me the inside of the house and we said goodbye. The next day, she brought over a beautiful basket of gourmet popcorn. I wasn't here when she came, but Daren said she expressed gratitude and complimented us on being good neighbors.

I wish I felt like it. I still feel embarrassed. I still wish I hadn't gone anywhere near those dang bushes and kept my big mouth shut. What was I thinking helping the neighbors who like things an arm's length away?

So, there you go. My story to help you to remember things like "personal space," "how to score gourmet popcorn," and "how to avoid possible embarrassing moments."

You're welcome.