SPRING
2002 George A. Crispin
Woodbury MM
n my fortieth birthday, which seems so long ago now, among other celebratory events, I moved into my present home. In doing so I also moved into a neighborhood, likewise into a community, a political unit called a township. I was thus a part of the support for the local school system, the local township committee, many local businesses, and, as it turned out, several farms in the area. In the course of time I made many friends, and it would be nice to say I was friends with everybody. But this was not true. With my next door neighbor there were rough times.
On most days we were on friendly speaking terms, and occasionally were able to do each other a favor. But the contention, for me, came around hunting season. It was during that time that the dogs were set loose, and gangs of men stalked the forests and fields with guns. The sounds of gunfire intermittently penetrated the landscape, often when one least expected it, sometimes too close to our house for comfort. Once my neighbor came knocking on my door stating that he had wounded a deer which then ran onto my property, asking that he might follow and finish it. I declined permission and, myself, walked my land for several hours. What I would have done had I found a wounded deer I do not know; I found no traces of one.
This caused strained relations to be sure, but when my neighbor did kill a deer he proceeded to hang its deceased carcass behind his house within a few feet of the property line. Each day for days as we drove in and out there was that deer, or another, a deceased testimony to nearly everything we opposed in terms of man’s relationship to nature and the environment. In fairness, they needed the meat, it was part of their income. But the hanging deer grated upon my sensitivities nonetheless. Within the township I was one of the few who opposed hunting and carried no gun rack in my pickup truck.
As a sideline, for exercise and profit, my neighbor cuts wood. His yard is piled high with wood cut to cord size. Some he sells, some he uses to heat his home. Likewise, I heat with firewood, possessing two wood stoves and two fireplaces. But I am not so efficient as he and can never keep up with our needs. One cold winter day I asked him the price of a pick up of wood. The next day it was delivered. As big as it looked, it did not last as long as I expected, so I ordered another. This could get expensive. Not long after, as I drove down my lane, he waved to me and proceeded to let me know that he had just split some wood, but it was inferior in quality and he needed the space and would give it to me if I came and got it. A gift of this kind one acts upon immediately, It took only a change of clothes for me to get the wood.
Over time he must have sensed our need was great, for every time he had extra wood, or needed space, we could have it. Our debt in gratitude grew in size. Then one day I was struck by an idea. He had land overgrown with bracken. I would give him a buck from those born in the spring. He was touched by the offer, and when the goat grew to maturity we delivered it to his meadow.
Overgrown as it was, I lent him four others. His lot is now clear and the goats are fat.
Summertime is when my land flows with milk, if not honey. Remembering his generosity when I needed firewood, I wondered if he might need milk. He did. He offered payment, but I reminded him of the firewood. Now every day I trek to his door, often with my little son in tow, to deliver the milk. I joke that mine is the only home milk delivery left. Frequently we use these occasions to visit and talk of the weather and our gardens. Then, he will say, “My green beans are just ripe for picking now. You want some?” I return home with a paper bag of beans for supper that night, and maybe tomorrow as well.
Summertime is when I buy and store hay for the winter. Surrounded as we are by dairy farms, I buy it out of my neighbors’ fields. Our family has developed a work system for getting hay. My wife drives the truck while I load. But getting it into our barn is brutal work, hard on the back, intensely hot labor. We struggle and manage. Driving down my lane one day this summer, my neighbor hailed me. “Want some help?” he asked. I am proud of running my farm by my own labor, but a higher instinct prevailed. I know the value of being a helpful neighbor, so I invited his aid and his company. He was masterful at tossing the bales into the barn; it cut the work in half. Afterward we leaned against the truck and talked as farmers who have finished a summer day of making hay.
Often I have pondered the biblical instruction, “Love thy neighbor.” It seems to echo down through history with such force and to suggest such a high standard that we are bound to fall short. It also seems to resonate deep emotion that cannot be prompted by the will. But in the daily exchange with my neighbor recently it has become increasing clear that love at its roots is action, our conduct toward one another. It has also become clear that it does not necessarily require deep emotion. Nor does it exclude it. What it requires is relationship built upon decency, upon helpfulness, upon trust, upon ethics, upon kindness. All of these qualities have been the daily diet of the relationship that has been built over the past year between my neighbor and myself. Now I believe I can say with genuine honesty, “I love my neighbor.”
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Wednesday, February 18, 2004 at 08:19 AM
