A Wonderful Day in the Neighborhood
I was born in Texas. Raised in Yankeeland – with a small stint on the West Coast.
I moved to the Deep South at 18 – Mississippi, and later, Louisiana. I spent a dozen years in the Southwest. Now I live in the Ozarks. When people ask me where I’m from I am at a loss to answer.
A Texasyankeedeepsouthwesternozarker I am. A city slicker turned country girl (as much as one can turn with osteoarthritis and other age-related maladies). I tell you my varied background so you will understand that my next statement is based on bona fide research and not merely a reflexive cheer for the place I call home: The feelings of neighborliness seem greater here than elsewhere.
My well recently broke down. It’s done this before – usually requires a new fuse or capacitor. And minding the well was my late husband’s job. He didn’t know much about wells, but the division of labor in our marriage made it his responsibility to find a neighbor who knew how to help, or call the well fix-it company.
But Kirk isn’t here to solve the problem – so I did the responsible thing and went to the well house to look around. Yup. There are fuses. And wires. And gizmos. And I hadn’t a clue.
Next – call the neighbor who can do everything. He checked all the fuses and gizmos. He can build a house, hunt, cook, fix cars, garden. If ever I was abandoned in the woods without a compass or a glass of water, he would be the person able to keep me alive.
But alas – he couldn’t fix it. Still, he didn’t abandon me, despite this being a holiday weekend away from his job.
Our new neighbor showed up – one who currently draws his water from my well. And it was this man’s father with whom I had very recently struck a deal with a mere handshake: His son could use my well until he got his own well dug. And if anything went wrong with my well during this timespan, this gentleman, an electrician by trade, would fix it. With his own hands. No charge.
So, he too spent his Memorial Day holiday at my well house. He called in a crew of two more men. (Wanna know how many grown men you can fit in a tiny well house?) Five men pulled up a pump that had been dangling on a 300+ foot rope for decades, working its heart out until it finally expired. Two days later, I had a new motor, a new tank, and a new pump, which does not hang precariously on a rope. The pipes are new and there are no longer any dead gizmos laying around the well house.
I have to pay for all the new parts, of course – but I always thought I’d have to hire somebody to start from scratch when my well gave out. I wasn’t expecting free labor. Or for somebody I had just met to coordinate all the repairs while I just went about my daily business.
I’ve heard it said that good fences make good neighbors. Well, most of my fences aren’t worth a nickel, but my neighbors are the greatest. Maybe it’s because we can’t see each other’s houses without taking a short walk. Or maybe it’s just because people in Carroll County take care of each other.
I’ve also heard the phrase “My word is my bond.” Apparently, that means something in the Ozarks. So be careful what you promise on the strength of a handshake!