Neighbors

Last week, the boys and I started something new. We've been talking about doing something like this for several years (some seeds take longer than others to germinate), and now that the bare bones of home and garden are firmly in place, we find ourselves with an easy space of time each week to do it in. We are sharing soup with our neighbors.

I like to make soup during the cold season. I throw in whatever I find in the garden -- pumpkin, apple, fava bean greens, potatoes, carrots, onion, garlic, eggplant (yes, even now!), kale, tomatoes -- some black-eyed peas, fresh herbs, and call it good. It usually is.

After the morning efforts of chopping and stewing are complete, we load up my basket and backpack with hot 1/2 gallon jars, bowls, and spoons, and head off down the road. We stop at the places one can usually find those in need of a hot meal and some lovin' -- the intersection at Albertson's, under the Amazon Parkway bridge, the picnic tables behind the community center -- and we break bread there with our neighbors over a steamy bowl.

We have heard some stories. Mills shut down, work injuries, children dead, the struggle of living on the streets, and always present but often stowed away so it is not drunk "in front of the children" (mine), is the Bottle. Sedative and millstone, its affects are tragically kaleidoscopic on the lives of those who have been grateful for our listening and sharing.

Last week, we swapped stories with a young man at the skateboard pit. As I described how I made the soup, he nodded appreciatively at the skill I appeared (!) to have in balancing flavors with herbs and vinegar. "Not your first day at the rodeo!" he said. He offered the boys encouragement as they rollerbladed back and forth.

Yesterday, coming home with a surplus, we caught an elderly neighbor we had not met before as she unlocked her door. An offer of soup was welcome, and I felt so relieved to help, having seen her struggle to mow the front lawn two months ago on a day that I did not easily find the space to offer a hand.

Finally, we had the great pleasure of taking the last half gallon to my own grandmother who lives in Springfield (aren't I lucky?) and sharing a meal with her. The boys listened to stories from her life and the Great Depression, then shared their art and play with the woman who has shepherded more young souls than just about anyone I know.

I am so grateful to experience a sense of abundance in time, energy, and to some degree resources that I may give and receive with true joy. I am grateful for my children who share my dream (as long as it includes slides and skateboard pits) to connect and love within our community.

And I am grateful to share it all here.