A good neighbor who was worth the wait
This morning the sound of water woke me at seven, splashing onto our balcony. I'd been awake reading until nearly two, and hoped to sleep until eight or nine. First, it's a Saturday. Plus nothing pressing waits at my desk. And that's a rare thing for me.
A flock of geese honked, the birds sang, the usual morning sounds, but the downpour was strange, beyond strange, as the sky was that vast beautiful blue that happens more and more this time of year.
I threw back the covers. When I stepped onto my balcony, I saw that my upstairs neighbor was pouring buckets of water over his. I said, 'What are you doing?'
And he said, 'I'm cleaning my deck.' He heard the alarm in my voice, the distress in my tone, but he threw another bucket anyway, splashing potting soil out of another of my planters.
'Well, you've made quite the mess of mine!' I yelled. Which made the big white dog that lives below me bark and the small white dog bark that lives next to the big white dog bark. Before long there were three dogs barking.
'Okay, I'll stop,' he said. And without apology, he went back inside and slammed the door.
It took me all morning to clean up the muddy spray that smeared my flooring, chairs, flowerpots, and siding. A part of me felt like marching up to his place to say that a condo balcony isn't like the deck of a house where you can do what you like. But I know disinterest when I hear it, heed it when it comes at me, and try not to overreact, i.e., cuss at him. Because I wanted to cuss at him.
The bright spot is that he made me miss my old upstairs neighbor, Frank. Or, sometimes known to me as, 'Fraaank! For cripes sake, are you smoking on your balcony again?'
'I know. I know,' he'd say.
Frank and I never met face to face. We were a little like Tim & Wilson who never revealed his full face on the sitcom "Home Improvement,' communicating not from behind a fence, but with a floor/ceiling between us. But the way we disagreed, I realize, was a rare gift between neighbors. Compared to what happened this morning, our exchanges were gentler, more considerate, even humorous — the best kind of neighborly give-and-take.
'Fraaank?'
'Promise you won't tell the board on me.'
Frank needed to smoke, and I knew it. I also know the truth of condo living is that it's impossible to connect deeply with all of your neighbors, consideration is more important. So Frank's smoking was kind of a test. It felt like that to me anyway, and I did my best not to over object to his dependency because I also valued his quiet dignity, his sort of innocent chuckle mostly aimed at himself, and for two years, he revealed more and more ways the word 'neighbor' was apt.
For example, in August of 2022, I had a gathering of friends that was bound to get a little rowdy because I'd made a pitcher of Negroni's. I texted Frank to say that one of us tends to laugh really loud when her dance shoes are on — it was me — emphasizing that it was Girls Night Out because I thought it might be rude to warn him but not invite him. Later — two seconds later — he texted back, 'Can I come?'
Frank died in 2023.
And, writing this now, I think how the people I know on the island are smart, hardworking people, saving the world with our organic food, recycling, and electric vehicles which, if nothing else, mirrors our hope. We do what we can, fight for things that need saving, buy our books from our local bookstore, support our community because, we figure, too many people don't anymore. I understand that this is the best most of us can do, and it's the best I can do.
But Frank? Frank (Frank R. Jozwiak, tribal lawyer) did so much for so many that it feels as if this is no longer a story about neighborliness, but about selfless dedication.
Frank and I never talked about our work lives. It was only after he died that I read how he practiced federal Indian law, including ten years as in-house counsel for the Makah Indian Tribe at Neah Bay. He drafted tribal constitutions, ordinances, drug and alcohol codes for tribal governments and enterprises. He represented tribal clients before numerous federal, state, and tribal courts throughout the United States.
God, I thought, no wonder he smoked.
Once, Frank spoke more intimately. Leaning over the railing, he said that his wife used to scold him, too. 'About what?' I said. '
'One thing or another,' he said. 'So you kind of make me feel at home.' It wasn't an invitation to a longer conversation, just a clear after in our relationship — reserved before and more friendly after.
As soon as I was back inside, I excitedly told my husband what a great exchange we'd had. When he asked me what, specifically, was so great about it, I couldn't really explain why Frank's talking about his personal life made me feel so happy, only that it did, as if the floor boards above had finally swung open to let a friendship in, which I think is the best way of putting it.
These are the kind of interactions that have always renewed me. It just took us longer to give ourselves over; to recognize how in need of each other we really are, or can be, if not with this neighbor, then some other neighbor.
And if I have any influence by telling a story about a good neighbor and it makes another person into a better one, it's been a good workday in my world.
Mary Lou Sanelli's latest title is "In So Many Words." She works as a writer, speaker, and master dance teacher. An exhibition of her poetry alongside art by Fatima Young, "Visual Memoirs: Painting and Poetry," runs through June at the Bainbridge Island library. For more information visit www.marylousanelli.com.
This article originally appeared on Kitsap Sun: A good neighbor who was worth the wait | Opinion
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