Neighbors

This week, Daphne Gregory-Thomas writes about why it's not the location that matters most but the people all around you.

I am a serial mover.  I’ve moved more times than anyone I know. 

Everyone asks, “How many times have you moved? Why so many changes? How come you can’t just settle down?” 

I never answer the “how many times?” question. It’s a private number, counted more in neighbors than in digits. 

Ed is my newest neighbor when I move to a small historic town in southern Maine after living many years in New York City. He is 80, toothless, and smokes a lot. 

I meet him on a gray slab foundation, a set of plans in his hand depicting what will become the one-floor house he will build for me. He eyes me and my husband with the baked-in look of a lifelong Downeaster.  

“I live out back,” he points to the house behind the foundation. “I built that, too. Been doing this for 60 years.”

Ed is a man of few words and sharp wit. My new-neighbor radar tells me he’s a keeper. 

Before this, there were MANY new neighbors populating our life in New York City.  Early on, there was Miss Marni, the upstairs Jamaican nanny who greeted us with a plate of savory jerk chicken when we moved into the old brownstone on West 71st Street. She let us know what to do when the fritzy fire alarm goes off, and—with one eyebrow raised—warned, “This building is old. GOOD people keep it new!” informing us of who’s really in charge there. 

Mr. Chu was a fine neighbor too, always greeting my husband at his laundry shop on West 69th Street with a cheery, “Hangers! No box!” 

For the same reasons many New Yorkers decide to continually change their living circumstance, we followed suit. “Too light! Too dark! Rats! Too noisy! No heat! Too hot! Too quiet! Too expensive!”

All great excuses to find new neighbors on the many blocks we inhabited on the Upper West Side over the years including: the nosey man on the West 75th Street co-op board who asked offensive questions but ended up trusting us with his dog when he traveled; the bottle collector who roamed the streets, always ready for a good chat;  the artist living in the basement on West 69th, who painted scenes in the hallways to brighten the space; the opera singer who practiced every night with her window open, a free concert for all; the woman across the courtyard on West 68th who dressed and undressed with the shades up on purpose; the grand dame of West 75th, who even at 92, would not leave her apartment unless dressed to the nines, makeup perfect, hands gloved, hat just so; the mystery writer across the hall on West 64th, who, when I told her I have always dreamed of putting pen to page, encouraged me.

“Start writing it all down. Lots of life’s mysteries are solved on the page,” she said.

Eventually, friends started asking, “Is your relationship okay? Why so many changes? What are you running from?”  

I never bothered to explain my itinerant life, just kept adding to the new neighbor tableau.

Despite all the changes up and down the blocks, there was one constant—summering each year on the coast of Maine. This was the place of my immigrant grandparents’ origin story, fleeing from poverty and starvation decades ago to work in the coastal textile mills, never to return to the old country, new neighbors, both welcomed and resented, in a foreign land.   

When my eight-year-old granddaughter announced her family was moving to Maine for good, it did not take much convincing. “You know how to move, Yia Yia!  You do it all the time!  Besides, I want you close .”

A few other new neighbors, who we haven’t yet met, stop by to lend a hand, reminding me of an old movie scene, people pitching in to raise a barn and build a community at the same time.

This brings me back to Ed, my newest neighbor, ever a cigarette hanging from his toothless mouth, hammer in hand. Each morning, we greet each other with a wave, a smile, a few words about the day ahead. 

When we decide we need a storage shed, he notices from afar how the parts and pieces have us befuddled from the start. Within minutes, he’s there, saying little other than “Hand me this” and “Just hold that.” A few other new neighbors, who we haven’t yet met, stop by to lend a hand, reminding me of an old movie scene, people pitching in to raise a barn and build a community at the same time. I run into the house, make coffee and sandwiches. 

Ed and his helpers are not so different than Miss Marni reminding us to be good; the nosey co-op man entrusting us with his dog; the grand dame dolling up every day; the bottle collector and his friendly chats; Mr. Chu, who always put the shirts on hangers. 

Ed is the same, even at 80, seeking out in others all that that we have in common, proof that we are cut from the same cloth, people who need other people for the simple things: a word of kindness, a plate of jerk chicken, a free concert through a window, a hallway painting to bring some light, help with a shed, coffee and sandwiches. 

These days, when friends make jokes about my endless moves and many changes, I keep my own counsel on the exact number. Instead, I count our neighbors, all adding to the richness of my life. Running from something? Not one bit. Running toward it is more like it, diving into all that makes us human, neighbors one and all. 

Daphne Gregory-Thomas spent 45 years living and working as a high school educator in New Jersey and New York. Shortly after retiring from the classroom and writing many school reports, she discovered her new writing heartbeat by participating in the Memorial Sloan Kettering Visible Ink Writing Program. Her essays have been published in the MSK Visible Ink Anthology and by Zibby Mag. They have also been performed at the annual MSK Visible Ink event (NYC), WritersRead (NYC),  and at the Yarmouth Maine Historical Society’s Rooted Narratives event. She now resides in Kennebunk, Maine, and is an active member of Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance. Ever the essayist, she is also working on a long-form memoir project.