Mr Rogers' Neighborhood.

   I barely know him. I know people who know him well. I know that he is 101 years old!

   He has lived across the street from us for the past 11 years. He was here before we came. Sometimes we have seen him and his wife sitting on the porch in the evening or early morning. It's a raised veranda on the back of their house which is right across the street from us. We’ve waved, shouted a cordial greeting or reply, and conversed about how to get the city to do something about blocking our street when it gets slick. We weren’t ever successful on that one.  We've helped rescue many a car from the drop-off going down toward his yard during icy or snowy weather.

   He and his wife have had their share of health problems, as you can imagine. My neighbor who is a retired nurse, has regularly visited them, taking them meals, and looking in on him while she was in the hospital and looking in on her when he was failing. I believe she’s known them much longer than she has been the awesome lady who lives next door.  I also have a student who has visited with them periodically as they have been part of the shut-in ministry of her church.

   This past fall Mr. Rogers wife died. My neighbor has gone to see about him and helped him out as much as possible. But he needed a better overall solution. They hired a guy to stay with him, trying to allow him to live out his last days in the home he was accustomed to. But finally the decision was made to move him to live with his son in California.

   And so I have watched with a bit of sadness as the moving van in his back yard has filled up over the past few days. I've watched and considered. It's a small van for such a large house. Scenes from Fiddler on the Roof play through my mind depicting the belongings of the people piled in wagons and carts after they had sold or discarded all but essentials. Some knew where they were heading, but none really understood. Anatevka was all they had known. One man said he was going to Chicago, America and another exclaimed he was going to New York, America and the first replied “Oh good! We’ll be neighbors.”

   From the stories I've heard, they moved into the house right after it was built and raised a family there. Children moved into new lives, took those lives elsewhere, came back for awhile and then eventually became too embroiled in their own worlds to get away.  The days grew longer and more difficult and one by one activities were surrendered to the disability of age.

   I wondered how he will accept his new life in someone else’s world, comfortable or not.  I wonder if he will even remember the quirky neighbor who waved and yelled a quick “Good morning,” or when the trashcan was blown over and became lodged in his back yard, or when the Mercedes almost fell beside his deck.  Will he be honored as a blessing or treated as a burden?  Will they take time to listen?  Will they find ways to get him out to see the best part of his new world? I’m sure the benefits outweigh the displacement, but still, it makes you think.

   And then there is the question about the house itself.  It’s always been tidy and in fairly good repair.  When it was flooded last spring, they replaced all the carpet throughout.  The lovely, huge old dogwood succumbed a few years ago to unthinkable heat after a late freeze, but the other trees are trimmed and well maintained.  No doubt it has outdated décor, but that’s not hard to fix.  Who will there be to fix it and prune and maintain it?  Will the new neighbors be friendly and clean?  Will they speak my language?  Will I make a friend? 

   The house to the south of us was sold when the man died and the woman went to live with relatives.  How we prayed for a neighbor to bless and be blessed.  That prayer was answered amazingly which brings a bit of hope into our uncertainty.

   Mostly, I hope Mr Rogers finds some happiness to live out the remainder of his days, however many there might be.  God bless you and keep you and make his face to shine on you and grant you peace.