Even though the American empire is crumbling before our eyes, stock markets are crashing and London is going up in flames, my thoughts dwell less on global events and more on a tiny sliver of the Earths surfacemy block. I live in an amazing neighbourhood and I count my lucky stars every day that I get to live there. Its not perfect, but it comes pretty close. A sense of community and feeling like you belong is what most of us seek where we live, but its not always easy to find. For me, a happy home in a happy place enables me to tackle and cope with the larger issues life can throw at us.
The importance of community was recently reinforcedtragicallyby the passing of a dear man. My next-door neighbour Alfred died two weeks ago today at the hospital, surrounded by his amazing wife of 47 years, his children and grandchildren. His passing was a shock to all who knew him and his presence in the neighbourhood and beyond will be missed by many judging from the number of people who attended his funeral. He was only 75. Many at the funeral lived on our block and its a relief to know that if my children needed help and we werent home, they could run to them for help. Ive never understood people who dont want to know their neighboursat least by name to say hello and to keep an eye out for each others homes.
Alfred and his wife Berit may not know how much theyve come to mean to my family. I was a great admirer of their relationship. Never once did I hear them utter harsh words to each other. Given how much we interacted with them and the many family birthdays, including Alfreds recent 75th, we celebrated together, they became extended family to us.
My husband and I are still in a daze over Alfreds untimely death. I can only imagine the void his family feelsin particular his wifebut longtime neighbours have rallied around Berit, who with Alfred often regaled us with tales of the neighbourhood over the last four decades.
Alfreds absence hits me every time I return home from work and I look at his house and realize I will no longer hear his accented voice saying, Hi there or overhear him calling, Berit, your dinner is ready while she was chatting away with us. (Alfred did the bulk of cooking. In fact, Alfred wisely told many young men about to be married that it was OK for men to do the cooking. Hear, hear.)
When I explained to my three-year-old son that Alfred had died and I was going to miss him very much, he asked why. Because Alfred was a good person, I replied. Alfreds not a person, my son said, which took me by surprise until he added, Hes a grandpa. And thats what my son called him.
We moved into our District of North Â鶹´«Ã½Ó³»neighbourhood just over two years ago and thanks to Alfred and Berit, whove lived on our street since 1970, felt instantly part of a community. We were also lucky to know a couple of fine neighbours in our old East Side hood, but our street was too busy so we moved.
We had barely moved into our new home when Alfred and Berit popped over with a couple of bottles of homemade wine to welcome us to the neighbourhood. It was the first of regularif not dailyinteractions with the couple.
Over the last two years, Alfred and my husband formed a special bond due to their shared Danish heritage. Many a Carlsberg were consumed, not to mention shots of aquavit on special occasions. Alfred smoked his own salmon and made his own gravlax, which he generously shared. And I finally got to experience an authentic smorgasbord at New Years at Alfreds home. What an honour.
When we learned the original owners of our house kept the place a bit messyother neighbours described it as an overgrown junkyardI wondered why Alfred never called a bylaw officer to report them. They were such nice people. We wouldnt do that, he said. This told me a lot about Alfred. He was one of the most non-judgmental people Ive ever met. I am privileged to have been his neighbour.
Skol, Alfred. You are terribly missed.
Twitter: @HughesFiona
