One of the greatest blessings of life is to have good neighbors. Nearby there is a family who we think the world of.
To maintain privacy, we will just call them the P’s. There is always a friendly wave when we pass by, and as is customary among country neighbors, there is the exchange of jars of honey, for perhaps a few tomatoes, or ears of corn. I suppose in the days before grocery stores, this was essential bartering. Now it is a jester of neighborliness that says more than words.
There was the huge bucket of freshly picked beans, squash and tomatoes brought by the day we moved in. Right out of their garden, with the morning dew still glistening on the top; the gift said, “Welcome to the mountain,” as beautiful as any housewarming we have ever received.
Mr. P’s garden, though typical of so many others nearby, is to us “city folks”, a sight to behold. It brings back such wonderful memories of my Grandfather’s garden and the times I spent summers at Mema and Papa’s farm.
There is something about a garden that is like a book that tells all about the family that plants and tends it. It has a beginning and end, each spring till frost. The way it is laid out speaks of the customs of one’s ancestors. The absence of weeds speaks of diligence and hard work. And how problems are met with resourcefulness speaks pages and pages about ingenuity and imagination. The day this past spring when we passed by and saw the dead crow hanging from a pole in Mr. P’s cornfield, I knew that was a story in itself.
There was the day one of their teen sons came by saying, “Mama sent these eggs to you.” The carton of fresh brown eggs were a real treat and once again reminded us how blessed we are to have good neighbors.