“Wherever life takes you, make sure you have good neighbors.”

Mom preached that to me repeatedly over my childhood years. Luckily, it was in reaction to a kindness shown by a neighbor. We did okay over the years. More than okay, actually.

Mom and Dad lived in Fairfield, Connecticut, twice – with four Indiana years in between. I lived in the first house as a junior-high schooler. By the time they moved back, though, there were only two summers left for college-aged me.

In those sad days following Dad’s passing last month, I grabbed the seven binders full of Mom’s poems and systematically took a picture of each page. Sitting at the dining room table snapping the photos, with Farmer Gary across from me removing old family snap shots from albums (for less bulky transport home), I looked over at Harry’s wife, Linda, who was busy helping with funeral plans, and said: You know, Mom would write a poem about this.

There was something poignant about family members working around the table that had hosted so many celebrations and gatherings over the decades; now that table served as a work bench as the next generation pulled together to preserve and honor those now gone.

I purposely didn’t read any of the poems as I photographed – that was a rabbit hole I simply couldn’t slide down. Couldn’t afford the time. Or the tears.

But now that we’re home, I’m taking a look.

There’s a new challenge, as I can’t just dial Dad up to ask for help in understanding the context of a specific poem. He loved it when we dusted off one of Mom’s writings for a blog post.

But I think I’ve got this one figured out:

for good friends going

the fledgling in the photo
carried me back to the bird
you partly tamed when we were neighbors
that picture of the mockingbird
born in the bush outside your porch
reminded me again Thelma
how dear and attentive you and George are
and kind
you bathed young Nicodemus Cat with me
sent flowers for our newborn grandchild
and helped me choose the stockings
for my tiny Mother when she grew
too frail for shopping

this poem is winter written
goodbyes come hard for good friends going
but in the invitation to your nest
I see the shape of Spring
– joan vayo, 9/10/92

Thelma is Mrs. Hartmann. I remember her so well. The Hartmanns were our neighbors up the hill on Mohican Hill Road. (Confusingly, the lake at the bottom of our road was spelled Lake Mohegan. Even as a kid, that bugged me.)

Debbie Loooooooooooou! David! Time for dinner!

The added charm behind that nightly call for her children was Mrs. Hartmann’s lovely British accent. I never tired of it. (Okay, I mocked it. Imitated it, really. But never with ill intent. It was just so … liltingly musical.)

When my parents returned to Fairfield in 1977, they were happy to discover that Thelma and George were still in town. Their friendship continued even when their former neighbors retired to Cape Cod.

Looking back to 1970, it was so nice to discover we’d moved next to neighbors who had kids our age. David Hartmann was a great pal for my younger brother Billy, and Debbie was close to my age.

Mrs. Hartmann’s training as a nurse really came in handy when Mom needed advice. Fevers, bug bites, rashes. One day I was stung by a jelly fish in the afternoon and that very evening, I disturbed a nest of hornets while pulling weeds. Three of the hornets decided to fight back.

The scar that’s still with me, though, didn’t involve a stinger or venom.

It was Christmas day. Under our tree was a beautiful toboggan.

As soon as we’d finished Christmas dinner, we bundled up and headed out into the snow. Dad checked with Thelma’s husband, George, to make sure it was okay to start our run on the edge of their yard. He was all for it.

Soon the Hartmanns joined us. Before long, a few other neighbors came by with their sleds.

With the toboggan, we could fit three or four people at a time. It was quite a thrill, as we gathered speed down the hill and continued into the next yard (no neighbors yet, just a For Sale sign).

It was too embarrassing to admit to my great fear, so I hopped on for a ride.

What happened next left its mark on me for life.

Above is a summertime photo of our first Fairfield backyard. That’s the Hartmann home at the top left. Combined, the yards made for a great sledding hill!

Below is the view from the top of Hartmanns’ hill, looking down into our yard and beyond.

See that yellow arrow? That points to our clothesline. It was one of those umbrella-style contraptions. The toboggan riders had to lean carefully during the ride to steer the long wooden sled so that it raced between Dad’s garden (edged with large stones on two sides and a split-rail fence on the others) and that clothesline.

We stunk at steering.

Although, we managed to avoid the fences, we ploughed into the metal pole holding up the clothesline.

Somehow, my right leg perpendicularly slammed so hard into the pole that there’s still a sizeable dent about six inches above my knee. It’s about four inches across. No longer painful or bruised of course, it still serves as a reminder that Christmas afternoon is better enjoyed with dear neighbors in front of a roaring fire, sipping cups of hot chocolate.

“for good friends going” © 1992 Joan Cassidy Vayo. All rights reserved.

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