When Daniel and I moved into our neighborhood a decade ago, we were the youngest by far. Almost everyone else had raised their children already, and the nests around us were empty. The neighbors referred to us, endearingly, as “the kids.” We were grateful, since they had all sorts of grown-up supplies and experience, lending tools and advice, giving us tomatoes from their garden, and dropping off meals after we brought our babies home from the hospital.
But I confess that in those early years, I assumed the age gap meant we wouldn’t have neighbor-friends. My imagination was too small to picture the intergenerational friendships that can bloom like a patch of wildflowers on an otherwise unassuming block.
***
We met Judy the way we’ve met most of our neighbors: by trespassing onto her property. One of our kids went traipsing into her yard for some reason I no longer recall—to pick a dandelion or to say hello to her dog or because their bike veered off course. In the weeks after that initial meeting, we exchanged hellos on our way home from school or on our evening walks (an attempt to burn off extra boy-energy before bedtime).
We found out Judy had been a widow for almost two decades. She didn’t have children or grandchildren, and her only family lived in Florida. It was just her and Daisy, her faithful fluffy companion. Now that she was in her 80s, the house was a lot for her to take care of, but she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her home and neighborhood.
On Halloween that year, we went trick-or-treating at her house, and Daisy didn’t greet us with the usual tail-wagging. “She’s refusing to eat,” Judy told us, eyes filling. Then she whispered, so quietly I almost missed it, “What will I do without her?”
After that, we stopped by her house regularly to check on Daisy. And Judy made sure her candy dish was full for her two young visitors.
That Christmas, we brought cookies to Judy’s house. It was ambitious, perhaps even ill-advised, to bundle up a toddler and a baby on a day with a winter weather advisory and a wind chill deep in the negatives. But, insulated by our snow suits and our Christmas spirit, we trekked down the block and around the corner.
The good news was that Judy’s sister was there. The bad news was that Judy had fallen and needed to go to her sister’s house in Florida to recover. “I’ll be back in a few weeks,” she told us.
***
A few weeks turned into a few months. We texted Judy pictures of the daffodils growing in her garden. She sent the boys Easter cards. “I’ll be home by summer,” she said.
Summer came, and Daniel and the boys picked up sticks that had fallen down in her yard. That’s when we met Joe and Linda, who lived next door to Judy’s house. We found out they’d been quietly taking care of problems that cropped up, as problems do in vacant houses. We sent Judy pictures of the roses behind her house; she sent us Fourth of July cards.
The leaves turned, and we sent pictures of the red maple in her front yard. She sent the boys Halloween cards. “I’ll be home by Christmas,” she said. This time she signed them “Grandma Judy.”
Winter came, and we shoveled her driveway, even though no one would be driving on it. She let us know that she had to put her beloved Daisy down. She sent the boys a Christmas card with a puppy on the front.
***
Then Judy’s brother-in-law (who was also her ride back from Florida) passed away. “I’ll find a way to get home,” she promised.
On a walk one day, shortly after a thunderstorm, we noticed that Judy’s welcome mat had split in two.
“Mom, we have to get a new one!” one of the boys cried. “What if she comes home and sees it’s broken?”
I opened my mouth to say that Judy probably wouldn’t be coming home. Several years had passed since she’d left for Florida, and health and age were not on her side. But when I looked into my sons’ eyes, I couldn’t squash the hope I saw there.
And so we went to the store and picked out a welcome mat that matched Judy’s style. The boys proudly carried it from our house to hers, an act of hopeful defiance that she’d cross the threshold again one day.
***
On a hot July afternoon, we were sitting on the porch when Joe and Linda stopped by. Their eyes were wet, and I knew before they opened their mouths what they were going to say. “Judy got pneumonia last week,” they said. “She went into hospice, and she was gone two days later.”
My preschooler buried his head in my shoulder. He was just a baby when she left. I marvel to think that we were in-person friends for just a few months, but our time as pen pals lasted four years. And somehow, in that serendipitous way that happens sometimes, we had a friendship that transcended calendar-time.
***
We’re expecting a For Sale sign in front of Judy’s house any day. I don’t know who will move in—maybe they’ll be young, maybe we’ll call them “the kids.” I may be tempted to think we won’t have anything in common, that we probably won’t be friends.
But with Judy’s legacy fresh in my heart, I’ll try to remember that friendship can be less about age or life stage and more about geography.
So if you see a bud of friendship cropping up near your home, even if it’s in a spot you wouldn’t expect it, don’t be afraid to give it a little water. Something beautiful just might start blooming, right around the corner.
