Meeting the Neighbors

Last week I talked about our move to the country. This week, it's time to meet the neighbors!

You'd think, being a quarter-mile from the nearest neighbor, that after moving into our little hobby farm we would've been lonely. I recall getting the area phone book and realizing I didn't know a soul in that whole book. It was pretty intimidating. Especially after coming from the suburbs where we didn't connect. Mind you, we knew our neighbors' names there, but we didn't have any deep friendships. And there were no guarantees here that it would be any different. And being so far from anything--seven miles from town--meant if we were going to connect we had to make the effort.

Yet within the first week of moving into our little rambler people started knocking on our door. The first people we met, of course, were the family we bought the hobby farm from. The town librarian and her farmer husband. They had two kids, a girl and a boy. The girl who was about thirteen at the time, left a note for our girls telling them all her favorite hiding and reading spots on the property. What a sweet welcome that was for them! They offered to help in any way, and since they were just down the road were our new neighbors as well.

The next knock on the door was our daughters' school bus driver. He came by to introduce himself and to see if all our insurance needs were met. Yes, we had insurance (and he wasn't overly pushy). Since it was a week before school started it was a kind way for the kids to get acquainted for that long ride to school every day. When Cait and Meg graduated high school, he was at their graduation parties too.

Then came the Muellers, our closest neighbors across the road. She came bearing cookies and a cookie sheet as a housewarming gift. Marla showed me around over the next few weeks, took me to Mankato and introduced me to Sam's Club and the bread store. She taught me important things about rural life; for example in the country it's called a "road" in town it's a "street." And don't interchange the two! How to look for wild asparagus in the ditches, and how good her dad was at finding it. Marla became my best friend, still is. She's always there for me. When my mother-in-law died she brought trays of food because "People will come." She was right. Oh, how I love her.

We attended the Methodist church--if you're looking for a friendly group of people these are it. Vern and Allegra Smith, Merle and Betty Moser--older folk who stick out a hand and ask who you are, always with a smile. We felt welcomed here and made many friends. When the pastor came to the house to get to know us he mentioned that a woman named Gladys Grice had wanted to come with him to meet us. She and her late husband had built our house in the 1960s, the land gifted to them by a farmer he'd worked for who'd never had kids. So the next time I was at church I looked Gladys up and invited her out. She showed me where her children marked their heights on the doorframe, the marks and dates still visible in the woodwork, the cutting board where she'd make Bill's lunch the days he worked in the fields. She too became a dear friend.

Somehow it had magically happened. We were connecting, making deep friendships with our neighbors and the people in town. A big part of it was the openness of the community to welcome newcomers but the bigger part was that we were looking for it. Taking the steps to reach out rather than cocoon. We can't expect the world to know when we're lonely. And it's hard when you feel vulnerable to take that step. But it's oh so worth it!

Traci