A parting gift

When kind words mean more than any gift could.

By LYNN MCNAMARA

Two years ago my parents sold their house in Rhode Island and moved in with my family and me. They had lived in the same house since their wedding in July of 1964 – so preparing to leave was both an emotional and logistical challenge.

Several days before the moving van was to arrive, I was helping my mother sort through and pack up the treasures collected over the last four decades.

I looked up from my wrapping and taping and was startled to see her neighbor at the front door.

Mr. Brod had lived across the street since my parents had bought the house, but had never before come to the door. Although friendly, he was definitely not a “borrow a cup of sugar” neighbor.

For years I believed Mr. Brod kept his distance out of frustration with my family. While his yard was always in perfect order, ours had the well-worn look that came with many football games and multiple pets. While his house was identical to my parents’ in design, it must have possessed magical qualities our house did not. It never seemed to need painting or repairs of any kind.

Every week, even when his three neatly dressed and well-mannered children were living at home, Mr. Brod would bring one carefully covered garbage can and one neatly wrapped bundle of newspapers to the curb.

I imagine he watched in horror as my brothers would drag our barrels and cans to the curb, often racing after the garbage men with bags in hand. “Wait, wait,” they’d yell. “We have more trash!” Mr. Brod never had more trash, and he never ever had to chase the truck.

My family would marvel at how, except for the one trash can and one bundle, we never saw anything go in or out of the Brod house. In 40 years, they had no yard sales, removed no furniture and did no renovations.

Mr. Brod’s garage was identical in size to my parents’ garage, but must have had hidden storage somewhere. Its door never strained against a mountain of bikes, sporting equipment and tools, before bursting open and hurling everything onto the driveway. Ours did.

On his side of the street, there was no yelling, no door slamming, no loose dogs being chased around, no bikes left on the lawn or loud music bellowing from the windows. For years, I thought he might be looking across the street at the comings and goings of my family and shaking his head at the din and confusion.

I thought he was probably happy to see the “For Sale” sign. My parents and their ever-growing crowd of noisy, sticky grandchildren would soon be leaving him alone to enjoy the peace and quiet of his garden.

I was so stunned to see Mr. Brod up close that I stumbled over my greeting and clumsily invited him in. My mother, packing some boxes in the basement, barely made it up the stairs before he had said his piece.

I hadn’t seen him in quite awhile and I was shocked by how old he looked. Although his back was bent with the full weight of his 80 years, his voice was that of a stronger, younger man.

“I wanted to speak to you and your parents before they left,” he began, and I instantly felt like a young child about to be scolded. He paused for several moments and I waited. “I wanted to let them know what a pleasure it has been being their neighbor for all these years. Mrs. Brod and I have really enjoyed watching you and your brothers and sisters grow up. You all are very lucky to have such wonderful parents. They have done a great job. I just wanted them to know that before they left.”

As he walked down the steps and headed back to his neatly manicured yard, I turned around, a lump in my throat. My mother, on her way up the stairs, had heard the end of what he said, but was too stunned to answer. The neighbor with the perfect yard and the perfect house had given my mother the perfect parting gift.

Lynn McNamara lives in Windham. She is an occasional contributor to the NH Mirror.