As I was going over "Threads of Love," I was suddenly brought back to another piano, one that I used to play at my neighbor Phyllis' house. I hadn't taken any piano lessons at that point, but Phyllis would encourage me to play by ear. That's what she was: an encourager.
My family was typical of the time; I had two parents who lived at home. Both worked, and my three older siblings and I would spend long summer days at home doing the chores that Mom had left on a list at the kitchen table. Being youngest, I was often left to my own devices. I remember having an imaginary pet store on the front porch. I would meet and greet customers, telling them about their recent pet purchases.
On the extra-special days, I would call up our neighbor Phyllis Myers to see if I could visit. If she was going to be home, the answer was invariably "yes." I would hop on my rusty, old, hand-me-down Schwinn bike and make my way that half-mile away as quickly as possible. There was always something fun to do at Phyllis'. Perhaps because all her kids had grown up and moved out, she seemed to shower me with attention. She purchased workbooks and taught me phonics. She taught me to make monkey bread and allowed me to make her and her husband simple omelets for breakfast and always required me to help with the dishes afterward. I can remember her flowery Corelle dishes and the way her husband Jasper would pray and do devotions at their tiny table following the meal.
I can remember the two violins hanging in a frame on her wall and the tiny antique toy piano that sat under her table by the window. I can remember the day we found a golf ball and how we cut it open to find out what was inside (a smaller ball wrapped in rubber bands). I can remember the merry laugh that she would so willingly share with me when we'd discuss something silly.
They don't make neighbors like that anymore. Or perhaps we've become too busy to notice the bored little neighbor girl on the rusty Schwinn bike.
Sometimes I yearn for an earlier time, a time when kids lived with two parents and a time when kids felt safe at home...and when parents could let their daughter ride bike to the neighbor's without having to worry.
In the meantime, maybe I can continue Phyllis' work and try to be that kind of neighbor because neighbors like that matter, and little girls don't forget.
