GREAT NEIGHBOURS ARE RARE

FOR 35 YEARS WALTER WAS ONE—AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WILL DO WITHOUT HIM

- Shirley Phillips

FOR OVER HALF my life, I've been able to look out my kitchen window and see my neighbour, Walter, going about his day, puttering in his garden, preparing for the season ahead—and I've loved knowing he was always there, steady as rain.

I was just 26, newly married and pregnant, when I moved into the small semi that shared a driveway with his. While unpacking, I heard a knock and found him and his wife standing at my back door, ruddy-faced and beaming. Handing me a bushel of apples he'd picked, he said, “I am Walter. This is Kathy. Welcome, good neighbours,” and left. Those apples were just what I needed for my persistent morning sickness, but I'd no idea at the time that those neighbours would be an antidote for life’s struggles. We lived peacefully in close proximity for 35 years, coming to know each other through our day-to-day ebb and flow—chatting, lending a helping hand, keeping a watchful eye, never overstepping. It was a special bond.

Most of our interactions took place in the backyard—which was Walter’s domain. He was busy, sunup to sundown and watching what he was up to became an endless source of fascination for my daughters and me.