Neighbors

It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood,
A beautiful day for a neighbor,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
It's a neighborly day in this beauty wood, 
A neighborly day for a beauty, 
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you,
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.
So let's make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we're together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?
Won't you please, 
Won't you please, 
Please won't you be my neighbor?

Mr. Rogers says it best. No surprise there.

When I first moved to Bainbridge to start teaching, I went apartment hunting with my parents. I ended up choosing one that we all liked--homey and cozy and small with a nice backyard.

Looking back now, it was a good choice. Not many people who live in town are forced to freeze before walking down their steps to watch a doe licking off her minutes-old fawn. 

It was a good choice for a much more important reason, though.

Neighbors. 

One of my neighbors happened to be one of my students, too. I'm going to refrain from saying much at all about these neighbors (although an awful lot of things could be said, as our lives have been woven together like a tapestry for these past two years), but I'm going to give you the barest glimpse.

Because I simply can't help myself. 

My student D. would often come over--to read with me, for tutoring, to talk, to listen to Peter Yarrow sing "Puff the Magic Dragon" over and over again and sing along, voice all tender and out of tune. 

"You can't move away," he said. "I need to keep coming over here. Even when I'm in high school. Hey, when I'm thirty I need to keep coming over!"

And once upon a time, he brought his brother. And we baked an apple pie. 

D. is the one wearing an apron. He didn't even know that boys his age are, by right, supposed to shun aprons. And I love him for it.

This one's for you, dear little neighbor.