Neighbors first, friends forever
/The Boston Globe
Beverly Beckham
I met Al first. He was the one I watched from my window, washing his car, sweeping the driveway, cleaning the gutters, mowing and raking and shoveling. He was the one walking his big black dog, Dante, carrying in the groceries and taking out the trash, waving and smiling and talking to everyone along the way.
He used to watch my dog, Molly, when my husband and I were out of town, crossing the street in the early morning to feed and walk her. Letting her in at night or when it thundered because Molly was afraid of thunder. "Are you sure it's not too much, Al?" "No problem," he always said.
Katherine was the quiet one, inside her house, sewing and knitting and baking. Or baby-sitting at her daughter’s. Al would drop her off early in the morning and pick her up late in the afternoon. I regret all those years I hardly knew her. Just a "Hello, Katherine. How are you?" A nod and not a hug.
It's different now. I don't remember when we became friends. There's no pinpointing the moment, no one day I can look back on and say this was it. I know I loved her cookies before I loved her. "Here's something Katherine made," Al would say, delivering a tin of the most delicious biscotti this side of the Atlantic. "Here's a coconut cake." (Not a mix. Never a mix.) "Here's a lemon meringue pie."
We eased into our friendship. We had tea sometimes in her kitchen on the fancy dishes her daughter gave her. We talked books. And plants. And gardening. And birds. And family. And dogs. And life, mine and hers.
She gave me a plant way back then, a jade that fit in a 4-inch pot. It was a cutting from a huge plant she had in her kitchen, which I admired. I took my cutting home, set it in my living room window, and every now and then, when it outgrew its pot, I transplanted it. I can barely pick it up these days. It fills the picture window, all gnarly and lush and shiny green, a living clock, a testament to the many years we have been friends.
Not everything Katherine shares with me has thrived, however. The purple phlox that bloom in her yard every spring, which she digs up and divides, instantly dies in mine. The eggplant she gave me a few months ago has shriveled up and disappeared. And all the instructions for knitting baby blankets and sweaters? For five years they've been on my desk gathering dust.
She doesn't care. She's made crib sets for my grandchildren, sheets and pillows and dust ruffles and quilts, the whole shebang, in blue and in pink, and crocheted ponchos for my daughters, my daughter-in-law, and me.
A few Christmases ago she sewed matching Mickey Mouse overalls for my grandchildren so we could take their picture for a Christmas card. She loves them and they love her.
Katherine turned 80 last week. Hard to believe. I see her now from my window gardening in her robin's egg blue housedress and I think how I have never seen her in pants. Since Al's heart attack last year, she's been outside a lot. She cuts the grass (she bought an electric lawn mower). And rakes and sweeps and weeds, Al beside her, directing her. She does the driving these days, too, and when I look, it's the pair of them I see talking to the lady who walks her Wheaten terrier (Al says no, we cannot get a Wheaten terrier, though that's what Katherine and I want - to dog share), talking to joggers and mothers with babies. Talking to my girls who stop by with their children.
How do you celebrate 80 years? With wine? With good food and good conversation? We do this most every Sunday, family dinner a tradition now, Al and Katherine part of our family. Last week Katherine brought homemade pizza. Today we'll probably order out. We gave her 80 presents for 80 years. Silly things: nail polish, bird food, ribbon. And a frame that says, "Thanks for Being You." And in a 4-inch clay pot, a cutting from the jade plant that she gave me.
