Thistle

I was raised in a neighborhood in Northwest Detroit where the houses were far apart enough for a very tight driveway, and that was about it. Combined with the neighborhood’s median income— not room for a lot of dining out or movie-going— this close proximity meant a good deal of interaction with immediate neighbors, especially on weekends, where chain-linked fences designated the small patch of backyard you were required to maintain and permitted to drink beer on, from a bottle, in a folding webbed woven chair.

Our neighbors to the south didn’t drink beer,  but were fairly active on the weekend, especially the husband.  Their daughter lived with them and was a schoolteacher; they were retired, and I never really knew their former line of work. I only knew, loud and clear, they had emigrated from Scotland.

I don’t remember speaking directly to either of them very much, but I spent enough time in the yard on weekends with my dad to hear their conversations.  Blue collar etiquette rules dictated neighbors greet each other upon first sighting and engage in a brief conversation. Additional discussions for the rest of the day were optional, since there was lawn to mow, flowers to plant, and a neighborhood hardware to visit by noon to gather materials for home projects. It closed at noon and opened again Monday, since this was a neighborhood where the only thing opened on Sunday were the churches, and the owners of the store had their own lawns to cut.

We left that neighborhood when I was eight, but as life progressed, it turns out my neighbors had shaped a good chunk of my life. My mother struck up a correspondence with the husband, and about twice a year, the mail brought us a letter addressed in true blue, pen-dipped-in-inkwell ink. His letters were 3-5 stationery-sized pages, each word first written (and corrected) in pencil, then traced over in real inkwell ink. I took this less to mean anything about frugal Scots, and more about the value and purpose of craft, a reminder that a task may have myriad options for execution, but some are far better than others.

Later on, after I secured a job with some leadership responsibilities, my father used the occasion to tell me about one backyard conversation he’d had with our neighbor I don’t remember being privy to. Scotland saw some tough times at one point, where my neighbor had trouble finding money, work, or food. At a particularly low time, word spread that the Communist Party was holding a local dinner and information session. As townspeople stood around in silent contemplation, my neighbor headed straight to the meeting, explaining to my father that “When the Communists have bread, and you have no bread, you go and listen to what the Communists have to say”.  Good words for leaders— and arguably, followers— to consider.

My neighbors’ last influence occurred 15 years later, when I was a college counselor, and hosted a meeting with an admissions officer from The University of Saint Andrews. The two of us hit it off immediately, as he regaled me with stories about his native Scotland, the perks of working next to a world-renowned golf course, and more.

As I recall, someone who’d overheard part of the conversation later said to me “You honestly understood what he was saying? No one can understand the Scots.”

Like so much of life, there is much to understand that is difficult to take in— unless, of course, you’ve been raised with it since birth.

Oh to have the heart of a child. 

Gift

He’d had an hour lemonade stand
From which he’d earned a dollar ten
That’s enough for any man
Upon a birthday gift to spend
So off he walked to Floraland.

The clerk wore pearls and beamed his way
As he explained his well-thought plan
A dozen roses takes more pay
She said, but since I understand
I’ll see what I can do, young man.

He headed home so slow and keen
Til finally, at the kitchen door
Two daisies and some bright fern greens
Brought tears of joy from mama’s pores.
She did not want for anything more.

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