A Humble ODE
On the final page of each issue of The Atlantic magazine, readers are treated to a delightful Ode by staff writer James Parker. An Ode, he explains is “a small celebration of, well, anything.” Squirrels, procrastination, naps, non-morning people. These short, lyrical essays are a two-man job. Parker explains that he does the writing and his editor, John Swansburg, streamlines and energizes them. “Draft by draft we get to, or at, the odeness—the nub, the kernel, the thing worth celebrating.”
After reading a few of Parker’s gems, I was inspired to craft an Ode of my own. To something worth celebrating. What came to mind was an Ode that celebrates chance encounters, power generators, and the kindness of neighbors. The following set of happenstances explains how they are all connected.
The morning of October 2nd we slept in until 6:45 a.m.—unheard of for us. After Kit steamed milk for a couple of café lattes, we settled into in a pair of Adirondack chairs on our deck that look out at a forest of towering Ponderosa pines and Douglas firs.
We talked about the new neighbors up the road who we’d met two nights earlier while on a post-dinner twilight stroll. Tim and Terri were walking their wire-haired fox terriers, Maggie and Sheamus, and stopped to introduce themselves. Wanting to continue the conversation and share stories about how the four of us had chosen to move to Nevada City, we invited them over for wine and cheese the following evening. They arrived with a gift bag of lovely hand-crafted local cheeses and artisan crackers. We circled around a table on the deck, and for the next three hours conversation flowed in that effortless way it does with long-time friends.
That Saturday morning, as we were considering a second coffee before heading off for a morning walk, I received a text from our next-door neighbors Len and Sharon informing us that the power would be off in our Deer Park area. Pacific Gas & Electric was investigating the cause and estimated they’d have power restored to our area by 2:30 p.m. The same thing had just happened the prior Saturday about the same time of the morning, making this our second power outage event in a week. “Buy a generator,” our neighbors all said when we moved in last April. “You’re going need one.” And boy howdy, are we glad we did.
At the time, our wonderful contractor John was finishing up a beautiful redwood flower box and set aside time to purchase a generator for us and add the necessary wiring to the power box. Knowing we were novices in operating this kind of equipment, he gave us a crash course in “Operating Your New Home Generator 101,” and constructed a nifty platform on wheels to nest it on in between uses and supplied us with a 5-gallon gas can filled with high octane so the generator would be ready to kick into action when our first outage arrived.
The first time the power went out, our good neighbors Carol and Jim immediately sent a text asking if we’d like help plugging in and powering up our yet untested orange Generac. “Absolutely!” I responded, and with that I dashed into the dark garage, pulled the red cord that releases the lock on the garage door, raised it manually, and wheeled the generator out onto the concrete driveway a safe distance from the house. Neighbor Jim did the rest, and before long, power had been transferred from PG&E to our Generac as promised.
When the power went out a second time, our next-door neighbor Sharon texted within minutes and her husband Len came right over with coffee in hand to help. Such a simple gesture. Such a small thing. But in the big noisy sometimes messy world we live in today, still cautiously distanced by a pandemic, celebrating the kindness of neighbors is worthy of an Ode.
ODE to Neighbors
For the first time in three decades, Kit and I are living in a neighborhood that is not sprinkled along a gravel country road. We take daily walks past houses that tuck in amongst tall trees filled with pinecones, acorns and twinkling lights. Gradually these neighbors have become friends. You are there for us. When summer heat arrived and rains did not, fires threatened. For days, smoke turned the brilliantly blue Sierra sky a murky gray. We realize how much we need the you, neighbors! How much we are all in this together.
You’ve shared information on Go bags and dropped off evacuation tags to attach to the front door if needed during fire season. You’ve said you won’t leave without us if that scary moment ever comes. You’ve hiked up our sloping driveway to help power up our efficient little generator. Your gifts and kindnesses have been many. A lavender wand. Free bags of pears left at the end of a driveway for strollers in that evening hour before bears come out to dance under the moonlight. A plate of strudel pinwheels filled with chopped walnuts, apples, and pears from a generous neighbor up the road.
We are older than this tribe of foothill dwellers who have welcomed us into their lives. Here in the Sierra Foothills, we fit in comfortably, share thoughts on new books, politics, and the meaning of life. This week, the loan of a cast iron skillet will make it possible for me to make a honey-glazed pear upside down cake which we will happily share. Mine didn’t make the journey from the Midwest to Northern California. Time to purchase and season a new one.
We receive each new act of neighborliness with heartfelt gratitude and return the gift with a loaf of Kit’s homemade banana bread or a book. “Happy to help,” they respond. “That’s what neighbors are for.”
