It has taken me some time to revisit this saga that spanned six years and started in 2009. Very few of my Original Readers remain, so this series of five posts,
Watching and Thinking About Blueberries, is unknown to most of you. I feel I need to write this chapter because the circle has closed so beautifully and joyfully; it reinforces my belief that There Is No Such Thing As Coincidence.
The Blueberries posts began almost seventeen years ago exactly with this chapter (that I hope you'll read, as well as the others to follow). When Rick and I first moved into this house 41 years ago, we discovered that his kindergarten teacher, Tish, lived right across the street. Tish and her husband Barrington Cash (apt aliases), were jetsetters in their golden years. She welcomed us with two pints of fresh blueberries, making it clear that she was not a baker, but hoped I was and would enjoy her gift. Years later, her husband died from a heart attack, and I anxiously watched as Tish's life changed.
Four years later, her huge silver Buick was no longer pulling in and out of her driveway, and a sense of foreboding gripped me. In Chapter Two, I couldn't bear the unknown anymore, and when an opportunity afforded me the chance to get answers, I took it. Unfortunately, my initiative didn't help me as much as I hoped. I learned only that Tish was still alive, and that her son was in charge of her affairs. That knowledge didn't do much to assuage my concerns, especially when a moving van arrived and I watched as all of her things came out the front door.
In 2014 I got more answers, but they were not what I hoped for. Chapter Three takes place in 2014 as I watched the slow and painful death of her redbud tree, seeing it as a symbol for Tish herself. My heart broke when I saw the city had marked it for removal, and even more pieces of me crumbled as I discovered why we hadn't seen Tish in so long. Even though I had long ago learned--and many times over-- that Life Isn't Fair, I railed against her circumstances.
At a Christmas party one evening in 2015, the Universe gave me a dinner companion who was able to tell me news about Tish. This woman wasn't even supposed to be there, but I was so glad that she was. In Chapter Four this kind lady told me that my former neighbour was happy and well, and I was so grateful, both for the knowledge and for Tish's circumstances.
It wasn't even a year later, however, that I was writing a far less happy installment in this saga. Chapter Five found me mourning the loss of our onetime neighbour and the woman for whom I felt...so much and for no tangible, comprehensible reason. I wondered so often about who would move into that house across the street--her house--and what the house would be like, alive again.
After a time, not so very long it seems now, I found out. Tish's house is very much alive these days, and when I look across the street, it's easy for me to see through her eyes, to see what she must have observed many times herself when looking out her front windows across to my own house over the years, more than 40 years ago.
A young couple, Anne and Charlie, live there now. They arrived several years ago after a series of renters and set up house with their infant son Oliver. The front yard was made into an ever-burgeoning garden on either side of their front walk. Incredibly, a mainstay of this garden has been yellow marigolds and bright golden mums. At first we all simply waved at each other and called Hello and Good Morning. Soon, however, Anne and I exchanged phone numbers, and I looked after her garden while they went on vacation. A few years later a second son, Archie, joined the family. Anne's boys are three years apart, as mine are. We share our culinary talents with one another: I keep her supplied with pesto and pickles and toffee; she is a fantastic baker whose sourdough rolls are, quite simply, heaven. She works as a youth mental health counselor, and I am the retired teacher her boys call Miss Nance. Their lives are busy and boisterous, and I love watching Ollie and Archie as they've learned to ride bikes, chase one another, and take walks with their mother and father, first in a wagon and now on their own two feet. When our next-door neighbour was having a cement driveway put in, I invited them to watch it all from our front porch. At Halloween, I prepare a special trick-or-treat bag just for them. If packages arrive on my porch while we're away, Anne or Charlie makes sure they are stowed safely. Anne sends me videos of the boys, and we exchange texts often. We are both grateful that we are neighbours, and we say so often to one another.
History repeats itself, and the Past harmonizes. Many have philosophized about this occurrence, this cyclical nature of human existence. Some would say that History rhymes rather than repeats, that by its very nature, Life is a series of recurring patterns. Much of this depends upon noticing these patterns, of course. In my case it is an easy task; all I have to do is look right across the street. And each time I do, it's like looking into a magical mirror, one that reflects both my Past and their Present. The Universe is a wide and wonderful thing, and I take the time to notice.
