Editor’s note: The Gazette is publishing short essays over the next several weeks to mark National Good Neighbor Day on Sept. 28. Have a story about good neighbors in your lives? Send your submission of 500 words or less to opinion@gazettenet.com.

 

 

When I think of my neighbors, I don’t just think of the people with whom we occasionally share a meal, a walk, a bike ride, or a game of dominoes. I also include the animals who roam freely across the strip of lawns, unmowed fields, and trees unbroken by fences that connect our houses. In fact, our non-human neighbors often bring the rest of us together.

Although from our home it’s just a short walk to Florence’s Main Street, and a quick drive to Northampton Center, on a quiet night our street fills with animal sounds.

Of course, we hear the expected suburban chorus of dogs barking, the occasional cat fight, and the delightful orchestration of cicadas in summer. But also, we hear cows lowing from the fields behind the Smith Vocational school, and sheep baa-ing from a neighbor’s yard that backs up onto the far edge of our own.

One spring night, my husband and I were startled by what sounded like unearthly screams coming from our neighbor’s yard. In the morning, texts pinged in from neighbors on both sides of us: “What was that commotion last night?”

Persistent Googling followed by confirmatory YouTube videos by one, then another neighbor solved the mystery: Those were the screeches of mating foxes!

In early fall, when a bat swoops into our living room or a neighbor’s bedroom, the texts begin to fly, too. “What should I do?” “Open a window!” “If it lands, throw a towel on it, put on sturdy work gloves, and take the whole bundle outside and release it!”

If a bear shimmies up a tree in someone’s yard, or if a bobcat slinks by below a kitchen window, or if a hawk swoops down to catch a rabbit, the news lights up our phone screens.

While in other places people might trade gossip about neighbors they’re concerned — or curious — about, we inquire about the herd of deer that roam around our houses in all seasons: “How many have you counted?” “Is one missing?” “It looks like the male is injured.”

One day, as we were setting out for a bike ride, we noticed a small group gathering in front of a neighbor’s perennial bed. “What’s going on?” my husband asked, as we slowed down and dismounted.

Peering down at what had caught their attention we saw it: A chicken’s egg was nestled among the tiger lilies.

A chicken had apparently (once again) escaped a neighbor’s coop. That’s not unusual. But never before had she left an egg behind.

“Do you think it’s been out here long?” one neighbor asked? “Is it safe to eat?” asked another. “Does anyone want to try it?”

We volunteered to be the neighborhood Guinea pigs. The next day, we cracked it open for breakfast. Then we sent an update to our neighbors: “The egg scrambled up nicely.”

Too bad the chicken hadn’t left more of them. I could have baked a quiche and shared it with all the humans in the nearby houses.

Tzivia Gover lives in Florence.