Good neighbors

    I have good neighbors. No, scratch that. I have outstanding neighbors. I've lived next door to Hank and Perri for almost nine years. We've watched each others' teenagers grow up, move out and, on occasion, ricochet back to the nest. We've weathered blizzards, hailstorms, deep freezes and deep-fry seasons. We've shared sympathies when we've lost beloved dogs. We stop to chat when we're outside at the same time. It's comfortable, and then some. Here's a little tribute to the "then some" of good neighbors.
    When I brought my son and my older daughter to see comedian George Carlin perform at the Island Resort and Casino, a 90-minute drive from home, I asked Perri to keep an eye on the house while my younger daughter was home, alone from early evening until much later that night. Melissa was 15; old enough to be left to her own devices. But my concern wasn't about wild parties or a boyfriend coming over, it was the thought of my daughter alone in the house late at night.
    My daughter told me later that Perri had kept a steady but unintrusive eye out for her that entire night. When my daughter was leaving to run to the store, Perri popped outside to remind her that she was available for any major or minor issue that might arise, from a blown fuse to feeling lonely. My daughter felt the comfort of neighborliness with feeling the smothering of nosy supervision. I felt free to have a good time without worry nibbling at my thoughts.
    When my older daughter needed to get from Marquette back to college in Houghton and her car died, Hank and Perri came out in the bitter winter cold and tried to charge the car's battery with their charger. When that failed, Perri drove me to buy a new battery, and Hank installed it.
    Need I say more? Well, I can. They gave me natural remedies when our beagle, Saira broke out in a fire-red, itcy, painful rash. Just this week, Perri answered my call on Facebook when my Jeep needed a tire removed and my partner was unable to get the lug nuts loosened. He needed a pipe to provide extra torque (or something), and Perri immediately replied that Hank had a pipe he would loan. And by the way, did I want a box of Calvin and Hobbes books? Perri had noticed my posts of the comic strip, was getting rid of the books, and thought I'd appreciate them.
    Did I mention that whenever Hank snowblows his driveway he also does mine? I do what I can to repay their kindness, but every gesture I make feels paltry in the face of this steady, ever-present care.
    Some people love to help because it feeds their ego. They radiate false modesty and lap up "thank you's" like a cat laps warm milk. They make it clear that they are the awesome helpers, and you are the needy "helpee." Getting assistance from these people leaves you feeling less than.
    Good neighbors - good people - help because they can. They don't seek fawning thanks and they aren't in it for anything other than the pleasure of being able to help. I have the inestimable good fortune of living next door to two such people. And I never, ever take my good fortune for granted.
   

Small town mom, big city daughter

In the past two days I've discovered two things about myself. The first is that I'm not as ready as I thought to say goodbye to my younger daughter and leave her eight hours away, at college in Minneapolis, Minn.
Melissa and I attended student/parent orientation at Augsburg College on Friday and Saturday. Due to the mechanical unreliability of my Jeep (and the woeful lack of big city driving skills of its owner), my friend Kathy was kind enough to get us to Minneapolis. While Melissa and I were oriented, Kathy explored that jungle of excess known as the Mall of America.
As we neared the city I was gripped by a mix of sorrow and distress. How could I let go of my daughter? How would it feel to not see her every day, to face the end of our comfortable girlie rituals of tea and "Desperate Housewives" on Sunday nights and occasional Saturday afternoon strolls through the stores of downtown Marquette?
What I wanted to do was burst into tears. What I did was suck it up. Melissa had worked hard to get accepted to Augsburg. It was her dream school, this was her dream moment, and I had no right to compromise her happiness with my quivering reluctance to face the fact that my baby was all grown up.
So this was actually a twofold discovery. I am a) More bereft than expected at the prospect of Melissa's leaving, and b) A loving enough mom to push my own feelings into the back seat for the sake of my child.
Discovery number two occurred during parent orientation. As I sat in the modern, glass-doored conference room, listening Augsburg staff enumerate the many cultural advantages of living on an insular campus with a major metropolitan city mere footsteps away, a yen to live in the big city myself stirred in my brain.
I could do it, I thought. Imagine packing up and starting fresh in a city with so many opportunities for cultural enrichment. What an adventure it would be!
Later that day, Auggie parents were offered walking tours of the surrounding neighborhoods - abbreviated tours, courtesy of the high temperatures and obscene humidity.
The neighborhood my group toured was tidy and vibrant, a colorful mix of older, well-kept homes and ethnically diverse businesses, shops and theaters. I could easily imagine Melissa eagerly exploring it all, expanding her cultural horizons in a way I never had the opportunity to do.
What I couldn't imagine was me living there. The houses are so close together you could practically reach out and knock on your neighbor's window. The yards were square green handkerchiefs of grass or garden. No lakeshore. No tree lined bike paths. Just lots of concrete, cars and people.
I couldn't do it. I don't want to exchange my slow-paced, small-town life for any advantage the big city can offer. I know Melissa will thrive there. I'm proud of her for her adventurous spirit and intellectual and cultural curiosity. I look forward to hearing all about her new life as it unfolds.
Meanwhile, I'll keep the home fires burning. This trip taught me that I'm destined to be a small town girl. Maybe that's another way of saying timid, or lacking in a spirit of adventure. Or maybe it means I know where I fit - and I know enough to value it.