August 4th
I have delayed in writing this post because it’s not really my story to tell. But I’m going to run the risk. Not writing about these past few weeks seems horribly dishonest.
Growing up, my family was infinitely blessed to have had the best next-door neighbors—EVER. They moved in something like 25 years ago. A trail connected our houses (we lived in a rather wooded area) and the day I met them, Nathan came bounding over—fearless. On his tail was 2-year-old Patti, who was having a meltdown due to some major problem with her juice box. I remember a distinct sense of disappointment when I realized the new neighbor kid closest to me in age was a BOY. He was my brother’s age, give or take 25 days.
What a moron I was. Granted, I was like 6 or 7 years old. But still. Little did I realize, on that first day, that you can grow up alongside and adore kids who don’t necessarily match in age and gender. To put it plainly, for the next 10+ years, we played. The four of us, every day during the summer and then every day after school, once we left day care. (It was third grade—whatever age that was.) Every morning, we walked to the bus stop and waited for the school bus together. At some point, our play group had an addition when their youngest brother, Henry, was born. Apparently that was 21 years ago, but I can't quite believe that.
Oh, how we played. We climbed on the monkey tree. We swung on the swings. We mimicked guerilla warfare via the greatest water fights ever. We ate popsicles—and fought over the blue ones. We got bruises on our tummies from too much slip ‘n’ slide. We sledded down our awesome driveway when it snowed. We tried to make salads out of dandelion leaves and the nectar from those weird little purple flowers in the backyard. We played an unhealthy amount of Sega Genesis. We jumped for hours and hours and hours and hours on the trampoline. We played house in the tree house. We roasted marshmallows around the fire pit. We played in my parents’ “cool tub” (unheated hot tub) during summer. We watched 1,278 episodes of The Simpsons. We rollerbladed in the basement. We did skits and filmed them, glorying in our directive genius when we figured out how to make Nathan (Santa Claus) “disappear” with a wee bit of film editing (it was part of the plot). We went trick-or-treating together—I particularly remember envying Patti’s Belle costume that her mom had made her (the blue dress with the apron). We had sleepovers underneath each other’s Christmas trees—and I thought noble firs with colored lights (theirs) were a million times prettier than Douglas firs with colored lights (ours).
During one of these Christmas sleepovers, we went around the sleeping bag circle, each of us declaring our favorite part of Christmas. “Presents,” said my brother.
“Presents,” I agreed.
“Presents,” chirped Patti.
“Presents,” Henry possibly said, but he might have been getting a peanut butter sandwich.
“Decorations,” Nathan said.
“LIAR!” we all insisted. You were supposed to say something meaningful, like decorations or family or, I don’t know, Jesus, but every kid knew it was all about PRESENTS.
But Nathan stuck to his guns. DECORATIONS were the best part about Christmas. (Now, a couple decades later, I can say that I definitely prefer decorations. So maybe he was more mature than us.)
Since then, we’ve all graduated from Liberty High and pursued this or that. Our parents, undoubtedly relieved to have their kids nice and raised, settled into happy post-kid lives. I saw the neighbors, the last time I was home in March. “Is there a baby over there?!” their mom yelled from their yard as my mom and I got Charlotte out of the car.
“You bet there is!” I yelled back. And proudly, I showed off my baby girl. Then there was the drama with my mom and the whole pulmonary embolism thing. Who do you think perkily appeared in her hospital room or hauled the garbage can up the big fat driveway while my dad was away? The neighbors. Duh.
And I don’t even know how to start writing this section, so I’ll just go: A little over 2 weeks ago, Nathan was in an accident. This morning, he passed away. That sweet, genuine, vibrant soul who swore up and down that decorations were the best part about Christmas, who played “Under the Bridge” by Red Hot Chili Peppers countless times (there’s a homemade music video somewhere—someone needs to find that! And secretly, I thought that was the coolest song ever), and who always had a strangely good singing voice, which he put to good use singing along to the oldies my mom would play in her Honda.
So, intense sadness. And disbelief. And then a return to sadness. I can’t quite believe it. I don't want to believe it. This afternoon I called my dad to inform him. “It doesn’t seem real,” I said. “It’s not real, right?” “It’s real,” he said. “It’s real.” Then there’s the parent aspect. Now that I have Charlotte, I can’t . . . Well. I can’t. I just can’t.
Pray, please. Pray for my sweet neighbors.
Growing up, my family was infinitely blessed to have had the best next-door neighbors—EVER. They moved in something like 25 years ago. A trail connected our houses (we lived in a rather wooded area) and the day I met them, Nathan came bounding over—fearless. On his tail was 2-year-old Patti, who was having a meltdown due to some major problem with her juice box. I remember a distinct sense of disappointment when I realized the new neighbor kid closest to me in age was a BOY. He was my brother’s age, give or take 25 days.
What a moron I was. Granted, I was like 6 or 7 years old. But still. Little did I realize, on that first day, that you can grow up alongside and adore kids who don’t necessarily match in age and gender. To put it plainly, for the next 10+ years, we played. The four of us, every day during the summer and then every day after school, once we left day care. (It was third grade—whatever age that was.) Every morning, we walked to the bus stop and waited for the school bus together. At some point, our play group had an addition when their youngest brother, Henry, was born. Apparently that was 21 years ago, but I can't quite believe that.
Oh, how we played. We climbed on the monkey tree. We swung on the swings. We mimicked guerilla warfare via the greatest water fights ever. We ate popsicles—and fought over the blue ones. We got bruises on our tummies from too much slip ‘n’ slide. We sledded down our awesome driveway when it snowed. We tried to make salads out of dandelion leaves and the nectar from those weird little purple flowers in the backyard. We played an unhealthy amount of Sega Genesis. We jumped for hours and hours and hours and hours on the trampoline. We played house in the tree house. We roasted marshmallows around the fire pit. We played in my parents’ “cool tub” (unheated hot tub) during summer. We watched 1,278 episodes of The Simpsons. We rollerbladed in the basement. We did skits and filmed them, glorying in our directive genius when we figured out how to make Nathan (Santa Claus) “disappear” with a wee bit of film editing (it was part of the plot). We went trick-or-treating together—I particularly remember envying Patti’s Belle costume that her mom had made her (the blue dress with the apron). We had sleepovers underneath each other’s Christmas trees—and I thought noble firs with colored lights (theirs) were a million times prettier than Douglas firs with colored lights (ours).
During one of these Christmas sleepovers, we went around the sleeping bag circle, each of us declaring our favorite part of Christmas. “Presents,” said my brother.
“Presents,” I agreed.
“Presents,” chirped Patti.
“Presents,” Henry possibly said, but he might have been getting a peanut butter sandwich.
“Decorations,” Nathan said.
“LIAR!” we all insisted. You were supposed to say something meaningful, like decorations or family or, I don’t know, Jesus, but every kid knew it was all about PRESENTS.
But Nathan stuck to his guns. DECORATIONS were the best part about Christmas. (Now, a couple decades later, I can say that I definitely prefer decorations. So maybe he was more mature than us.)
Since then, we’ve all graduated from Liberty High and pursued this or that. Our parents, undoubtedly relieved to have their kids nice and raised, settled into happy post-kid lives. I saw the neighbors, the last time I was home in March. “Is there a baby over there?!” their mom yelled from their yard as my mom and I got Charlotte out of the car.
“You bet there is!” I yelled back. And proudly, I showed off my baby girl. Then there was the drama with my mom and the whole pulmonary embolism thing. Who do you think perkily appeared in her hospital room or hauled the garbage can up the big fat driveway while my dad was away? The neighbors. Duh.
And I don’t even know how to start writing this section, so I’ll just go: A little over 2 weeks ago, Nathan was in an accident. This morning, he passed away. That sweet, genuine, vibrant soul who swore up and down that decorations were the best part about Christmas, who played “Under the Bridge” by Red Hot Chili Peppers countless times (there’s a homemade music video somewhere—someone needs to find that! And secretly, I thought that was the coolest song ever), and who always had a strangely good singing voice, which he put to good use singing along to the oldies my mom would play in her Honda.
So, intense sadness. And disbelief. And then a return to sadness. I can’t quite believe it. I don't want to believe it. This afternoon I called my dad to inform him. “It doesn’t seem real,” I said. “It’s not real, right?” “It’s real,” he said. “It’s real.” Then there’s the parent aspect. Now that I have Charlotte, I can’t . . . Well. I can’t. I just can’t.
Pray, please. Pray for my sweet neighbors.
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