Neighbors on same wave length

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

We have a thing going, Al and I. Every morning, right after dawn, he stands across the street from my office window and he waves at me and I wave back.

It's not a big thing. But it's nice.

Yesterday his wave was broad and hearty, a double-armed, football referee - the kick was good - kind of wave. Our team is winning, his wave said. We're ahead! Finally.

Al was smiling, too. Earlier, I'd heard a bird singing a warbly, unnameable but very familiar song. Maybe Al heard it, too. He must have. Al hasn't waved so vigorously in a year.

On December mornings and in early January, when he was walking his dog, Dante, while the sun was lollygagging on the horizon, Al would stand and wave under the streetlight or the fading light of the moon.

Sometimes I saw him then, his wave less victorious, more of an acknowledgement that he was out there braving another cold day and that I was indoors and warmer than he, but braving a few things, too. Here we are, awake at this hour, his wave said then and my wave acknowledged. Co-conspirators. Against the dark? Against winter?

There were mornings, though, when I didn't see him, when I got lost in what I was reading or doing and didn't look up from the computer until too late, until Al was back inside at the table with Katherine, Dante sprawled on the floor next to them. The shadows hid Al on those dark mornings and his waving didn't always catch my eye.

But yesterday morning, he stood out, a man and his dog illuminated by the sun.

There was a time before Al and Katherine lived across the street. And there was a time before they had Dante, too. But it's as if I only read about this time, as if my whole life I have been looking out my window and seeing Al waving and Dante by his side.

It's these little things - Al waving, Dante, Katherine waiting inside, the door always open, the kettle always warm - that make you glad to be alive.

My other neighbors, Bert and Mrs. Merlin (That's what my kids called them) have lived next door for as long as I've been married, but they live behind us, where I don't look, so I don't see. I don't see them getting in their car every morning. I don't see Bert sweeping his driveway or Mrs. Merlin tending her garden. I don't look out my window and wave to one of them every day.

And yet, their door is always open, too. Both my daughters' first real visit to anyone was to their house. One day (Can I go, please?) they were old enough to walk by themselves down the long driveway and up the big hill to the Merlin's. They ate candy there. And played with a succession of kittens. They learned to ride their two-wheelers in the Merlin's driveway. My son went sledding in the Merlin's yard. "Here's a crib.”” You can park in my driveway.” “Is there anything else I can do for you?" That's what the Merlins say these days.

It's the big moments in life that get our attention. Holidays. Birthdays. Family celebrations.

But it's these small moments that get you through the days.

Sunday night we set up a crib for my youngest daughter's soon-to-be-born son. Katherine made all the bedding. She makes me cookies, too, Italian ones with anise frosting. Al watches my dog. Bert brings me stained glass birds he has made. Mr. McPherson, who lives down the street and whom I never see, brings me pickles.

It takes me by surprise, the love you get from people who don't have to like you, never mind love you. But somehow do.

A wave brings this to mind. A lifting of the arms lifts my spirits. It all makes me want to celebrate the day.