022: The Neighbor

November 09, 2026

I found my dish at the neighbors’ garage sale. I’d brought it over with baked goods in it. Now they were selling it.

My mom used to take baked goods to new neighbors in one of her good dishes. A paper plate would’ve done fine, but she wanted them to come by. A few days later they could knock on her door and say they were just returning the dish, and she’d get another chance to talk to them. About thirty years after watching her do it, I tried it myself.

At the garage sale, I told them the dish was mine. I sure as hell wasn’t going to buy my own dish back. I’d figured they’d bring it back and stop long enough to say hello. I told them that’s what a good neighbor would’ve done. They were embarrassed, they apologized, and they gave it back. My mom used to get a nice visit out of this. I got my dish back and made two people apologize at their own garage sale.

We’d just pulled up to our new house in the U-Haul. I wanted to get the kids settled so we could unload, but there was a man outside across the road. I’d seen him and him me, and it would’ve been rude to go about my business like I hadn’t. So I ran across, said howdy, told him we were his new neighbors, and stuck out my hand. He looked right at it and left it there. So much for Southern hospitality.

He asked where we’d moved from. I told him pretty far away and that it had been a hell of a drive. He asked what I did for a living and a few other things, told me where he’d moved from originally, then came back around to it. “Where did you say you moved from?”

“I didn’t.” I wouldn’t shake the hand of a man I didn’t respect, either. But I’d have to know something about him first. This guy was still trying to find out where I’d moved from. He’d left my hand hanging to put me in my place before he knew a damn thing about me. So he either had a lofty view of himself or a lowly view of me. Either way, I ain’t playing that game. I smiled, told him to have a good day, and went back to the truck.

I never spoke to him again. Over the years I heard he’d called the cops on other neighbors over things two grown men ought to be able to sort out at the end of a driveway. I thought about that handshake when I heard it. All that piss and vinegar when a stranger came over to say hello, and when he actually had something to say to a neighbor, he called the cops to say it for him. The man was born a loser. The least he could’ve done was lose well.

If he thought I was being an asshole when I said, “I didn’t,” he had a point. I knew how it was going to sound. I’d still cross the road and say hello if I had to do it again. I went over because that’s how I was raised.

I had my dish back and was still finding reasons to be pissed off when the husband from the garage sale came over with a nice bottle. He apologized and said he’d heard I was a bourbon guy. I know for a fact he didn’t hear it from me. I still wonder where the hell he heard it. I’d gone to some trouble to tell him he ought to come over, so I could hardly stand there and act surprised that he had. We cracked it open, talked for a good while, and watched a football game together.

Out here in the Bible Belt, you hear “love thy neighbor” enough that you can finish the sentence before the preacher does. The man in Luke wants to know who counts as his neighbor. Jesus tells him about a Samaritan who stops for a wounded man, gets him to an inn, and pays for his care. Then he asks which man on that road acted like a neighbor. I’d been keeping score at the garage sale. I could tell you who owed me a dish and who should’ve come by to say hello. By the time my neighbor knocked on my door, the dish was already back. He came anyway. And I was glad he did. I don’t need new friends at this point in my life. But I tell you it is nice to sit and enjoy a bourbon with a man that makes you think and compliments your thinking.

My mom could get to know somebody standing in a doorway. Most men I know would rather ask if you fish. Then you go fishing. He tells you something about his family while you’re tying on a hook, and you keep tying it so he can finish. Same thing at deer camp or with a game on. You’d feel like an ass calling a man up and asking him to come over so you could get to know him. You can ask him if he wants to watch football.

Spend enough twenty-four-hour shifts with the same crew and you get to know a man without ever sitting him down to talk. You see how he responds under pressure. You overhear how he talks to his wife and kids on the phone, and that’ll tell you plenty. You know who’ll have the coffee going when you walk in and who needs a cup before you ask him anything. When a man who’s usually there before you doesn’t show, you pick up the phone. You’ve spent enough time with him that he knows why you called.

Nobody on my street gets that kind of time together, so one Fourth of July I threw a block party. Wasn’t sure if anybody was going to show. I figured the Fourth was as good a day as any to get to know a few of my countrymen. About a hundred people showed up, including neighbors I had never spoken to. By the time we got around to introducing ourselves, kids who’d just met were lined up for the same slip and slide, laughing and encouraging each other to, “Go!” Shit, they were better at meeting people than we were.

There’s probably a man down your road whose truck you could pick out before you could tell me his name. Next time you see him outside, go say hello. If you bring him something, use a dish you can stand to lose. If you see him working, offer a helping hand. Before you head home, tell him what time the game starts. If he comes, pull up another chair.