The neighborhood I grew up in was very charming - mostly middle class with a few odd McMansion type houses. We talked with our neighbors often, knew each other's routine, looked after one another.
My family was close to the one next door. Their daughters babysat my sister and I. My first crush was one of their boys. Chats over the fence, helping each other with yard work, what you hope for in a neighbor.
But, oh the garden on their side. Carol, the matriarch, was a master Gardner. Immaculate landscaping, patches with thriving vegetables, raspberry bushes so large we used to steal them through the fence. They had a crabapple tree that overhung the properties, with gorgeous white flowers that turned into troublesome crabapples falling everywhere. For my prom, we asked to take pictures in their yard as it seemed idilic. Absolutely gorgeous.
I remember, or perhaps it's just my writer's mind twisting reality, the garden thrived even more with the addition of a man named Fred. He and Carol seemed to flow their love, ability to blend families, into that glorious green space. They were, until the day one clan moved, the quintessential essence of proper neighbors. He had to live there for at least 10 years before I or my family moved.
Neither family lives in either of the modest homes on that semi-main street anymore, but the bond lingers. We never knew the in depth workings of each family, but we did not need to in order to support each other.
I discovered yesterday that Fred passed away..I can't help but think of their lush, brilliant emerald green oasis beginning to turn brown, leaves are shriveling, drying out from thrist. Fewer vegetables reach their peak, flowers pale and lose their drive to blossom. From brilliant color, the images fade to a decaying gray and swamp green.
