Neighbors

City living definitely has its advantages, but inconspicuous living is not one of them.  Our lot is situated in such a way that it manages to abut five other properties: one of our street's original houses, built around 1900 and now rented by four or five college kids; a 1950s brick duplex inhabited on the closest side by a retired minister and his wife; a beautiful but often vacant stone church; an empty lot; and a 1920s bungalow almost identical to ours from which our dear, sweet neighbor Mrs. H departed this world just weeks ago. 
When the kids and I were out in the front watering or weeding the raised beds, Mrs. H used to come out onto her front porch and call across the narrow distance, commenting on our gardening or swearing the children's acrobatics were going to give her a heart attack.  I'd have McLean bring her fresh veggies or bread we'd baked, and, of course, he'd have to jump down the stairs on his return trip, scaring the poor woman once again.  Thankfully, McLean and Chloe's antics did not lead Mrs. H to an early grave. Having lived a full life, she died in her home, surrounded in love by her children and grandchildren.  But, of course, we miss her.  And I thought I'd have no one to share my harvest with this summer until yesterday when Mr. J poked his head over the back fence.
"Looks like you're growin some good stuff to eat back here."
This was the first time our preacher-neighbor had ever addressed me beyond asking to speak to my husband.  Flattered, I pointed out the different plants and chatted about the chickens until he said again, "Yeah, looks good enough to eat."

"Would you like some?" I asked.  "We have more than we can use."  And so I started filling ziploc bags with lettuce and spinach and cucumbers while we chatted neighborly over the fence for the first time in over five years.  But I did save the season's first red tomato for myself.