The Value of Good Neighbors

“Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little things in between.” ~Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

What makes a good neighbor? Based upon various studies, it seems that good neighbors tend to have five distinct qualities in common: compassion, consideration, friendliness, helpfulness, and understanding. Most people, however, are not very good neighbors and, in fact, are rather lousy neighbors, namely because they are simply too caught up in their own affairs to pay attention to the people who live not just next door but on the same street or, much less, in the same community. There are, though, those rare exceptions who are good neighbors, and among them are Marshall and Sandy Bardelmeier.

In 1995, my husband Chet and I relocated from Georgia to Louisiana when Chet accepted a position in the History Department at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, and after leasing a house for approximately a year and a half, we purchased our current home in Holiday Gardens, one of the older, more established neighborhoods in Lafayette. It wasn’t long after we moved in that we met Marshall and Sandy. I have forgotten the exact circumstances of our meeting, though I seem to recall that they simply walked across the street and introduced themselves, which would be the kind of thing they would do. They are, after all, very friendly people. 

Since that initial meeting, Marshall and Sandy have played an important role in our lives. In fact, I don’t know what we would do without them. They have always been there when we’ve needed a helping hand. For instance, Marshall, a man of many talents, taught us how to use a generator, which is a necessary skill here in hurricane country. He also built our screened porch, installed new flooring in our kitchen and dining room, and constructed our storage building in the backyard, doing all the labor for much less than anyone else would charge. Plus, since Chet, a man of letters, is totally helpless around the house, Marshall is Johnny-on-the-spot whenever anything needs to be repaired. Not that his neighborliness stops with us, for I am constantly glimpsing his green Dodge Ram pickup around the subdivision and know that he is helping someone else. But that’s just the way he is; Marshall helps other people.

 

Sandy is just as goodhearted and caring. She makes her delicious homemade soup for us when we’re ill; she offers to drive us to doctor appointments when we’re too sick or unable to drive ourselves; and she brings us little unexpected gifts just because she saw them in a shop and thought of us. She also helps other people in any way she can, yet her compassion similarly extends to all God’s creatures. For instance, each year she collects everything from furniture to clothing to glassware to toys, stores the items in their garage, and then donates them for the spring yard sale benefiting the local no-kill animal shelter.

Marshall and Sandy have also put the joy back in holidays for us. When Chet and I moved to Lafayette, it wasn’t easy living so far away from family. (Lafayette is over 750 miles from my hometown of Fairburn, Georgia, and almost 1,500 miles from Chet’s hometown of Buffalo, New York.) Of course, it still isn’t easy. In the beginning, though, holidays were especially difficult to bear, but thanks to Sandy and Marshall, that is no longer the case. Holidays are no longer lonely affairs but once again special times of the year.

For example, I believe it was during our second year in this house that Marshall and Sandy asked us to join them and their family for Thanksgiving, and after that first invitation, they invited us again and then again. Now, it’s become tradition. Every year we spend Thanksgiving Day with the Bardelmeiers: Marshall, Sandy; their two sons, Darrell and Duane; their daughter Debbie and her husband Theophile; plus, their grandchildren and, recently, great-grandchildren. Marshall and the “boys” always deep fry at least two turkeys (It’s a Louisiana thing), the table groans beneath a mouthwatering array of delectable dishes, and we celebrate the holiday with our neighbors, laughing, talking, and sharing our thankfulness for the blessings of life.

And, indeed, Chet and I have been blessed. We have been blessed with good neighbors. But then, Marshall and Sandy Bardelmeier are much more than merely good neighbors. As Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Many people walk in and out of your lives but only true friends leave footprints in your heart.” The Bardelmeiers are true friends, they have left their footprints in our hearts, and I am grateful for them each and every day of my life. Yes, they are neighbors. Yes, they are friends. More than that, though, they have become family. 

 

Memories of Running

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photofolio.co.uk

I remember running. Autumn—air crisp and invigorating, azure sky, and trees dressed in flaming splendor. Winter—the sting of sleet, whisper of falling snow, and air so cold that when my eyes watered, it froze like glacial tears on my cheeks. Spring—dogwoods, daffodils, and azaleas blooming, the first robins, and gentle rains. And summer—sweltering heat, the smell of new mown hay, and thunderheads looming on the horizon. I remember running.

The first time I ran as an adult, excluding running the bases in family softball games, running to answer the phone when I was outside and heard it ringing insistently inside the house (Pre-cellphone days), or running from an angry wasp or hornet (they sting), was in March of 1979. I was 33-years-old.

I began running not for the aerobic benefits. Not to lose weight. Not  because running was the “in thing” to do. I began for salvation. Yes, that’s right, salvation. More specifically to save myself from debilitating anxiety.  The reason why I was dealing with such anxiety is another story, best left untold, but as I said, the anxiety was debilitating, to the point that I was having panic attacks.  

I would wake up in the wee hours of the night, the house silent and dark around me, and listen to my heart racing frantically in my chest, and I was afraid. Afraid of what, I didn’t know. I was simply afraid. Not understanding why, I went to see our family doctor, who prescribed some type of antianxiety drug. I’ve forgotten which drug specifically; however, after only a few doses, I realized that I did not want to feel that way—like I was sleepwalking through my days. Nor did I want to be dependent upon medication to keep me sane.  

At some point I read an article, perhaps in a magazine, perhaps in the newspaper, about the benefits of running, one of which was the reduction of anxiety. That very day, I took the bottle of pills to the bathroom, uncapped the bottle, dumped the contents in the john, and pushed the lever. The little pills swirled around in the tank for an instant then disappeared and were gone forever.

Donning a pair of canvas sneakers, I left the house, closed the door behind me, and immediately broke into a run. I think I made it as far as the mailbox at the top of the hill before I had to stop, gasping for air. We lived in the country on a dirt road about a quarter mile from the next road, which was paved. When I regained my breath and once more began to run, I made it as far as the stop sign at the intersection. Doubling over, fighting to breathe, I almost retched. But not to be deterred by such a minor inconvenience as lack of air or the sudden pain in my side, I started running again. This time I covered even less distance before I had to stop. On top of my labored breathing, my shins were killing me. As it turned out, I had shin splints. Not only were my legs unaccustomed to such exertion, my sneakers were not designed for running.

The following day I drove to a local discount department store—maybe Kmart, maybe Walmart, or another store entirely (I’ve long forgotten)—where I purchased a pair of Nike Pegasus running shoes (I remember those shoes distinctly). Then, I waited for my shins to heal, reading a book on running in the interim, after which I started over again—and correctly. I would run for a few minutes, walk for a few minutes, then run again, and as the weeks passed, my running time became longer and my walking time shorter. By June of 1979 I was running 10 miles without stopping and walking none of that distance. Moreover, for the first time that summer I experienced the runner’s high, that endorphin-generated state of euphoria produced during prolonged period of physical exertion.  

Image fron ak.picdn.net

Even now, these many years later, I vividly recall that day. It was autumn, late afternoon, and I had been running for perhaps eight miles, when suddenly—click—like a switch had been turned on—I experienced a sense of almost overwhelming exultation and peace, as well as a “oneness” with the world around me. The world, in fact, had never looked so astoundingly beautiful. Each leaf on every tree was distinct, the play of light across the fields was almost too beautiful to behold, the chimney sweeps soaring against the red and dying sky took my breath away. Everything was so astoundingly beautiful. It was like seeing the world for the first time, or, more appropriately, the way a person must feel who has been blind from birth and miraculously had her sight restored. I felt like I could reach out and touch the face of God. I also felt  if I could run forever—just continue putting one foot in front of the other until my heart exploded from the sheer unadulterated joy of  running. I had never felt so alive.

I continued running 10 miles a day for years, until 1991 to be exact, and though I didn’t always experience the runner’s high, I experienced it occasionally and often enough to make me truly appreciate it for what it was (at least to me)—a form of communion with my Creator.

Image from nailsworrthstrengthandfitness.co. uk

After 1991, however, though I occasionally ran and sometimes for long distances, I was no longer compulsive about it, perhaps because my salvation was no longer dependent upon running, since my circumstances had changed (another story). But, alas, time takes its bitter toll. I am now much, much older, and my body will no longer allow me to run. I miss running, though. I miss it desperately. I miss feeling my legs churning in long, smooth strides over winding dirt roads and along shaded, woodland trails. I miss the wind and rain and sun on my face as the miles fly past. I miss the measured beat of my pulse, the sweat streaming into my eyes, the sound of my Nikes padding over the earth. I miss running.

I still run in my dreams, though. In my dreams, I am gliding, soaring up and down hills, my feet barely touching the ground, and I am as light, as unencumbered, as free a feather floating in the wind. I am running. I am a runner. And I am home.