'Love Thy Neighbor' More Than Words
Posted: October 13, 2012
The first words he said to me were, “Do you need to borrow a lawnmower?”
I moved into my first house in Bridgewater when I was 23. It was the middle of winter and I was starting from scratch and the last thing on my mind was mowing the lawn. Then April came and while the grass didn’t look that high to me it clearly did to my next-door neighbor, Mr. Payne.
“N-no,” I stammered, “I’m going to buy one tomorrow.” He nodded and walked away.
I let out a breath. Until then we had not spoken but I had seen him outside and he intimidated me in the way grizzled, unsmiling, overall-wearing men who have lived a life of practical competence intimidate kids still playing at being adults.
A few weeks later I was struggling to pull up split-rail fence posts, pushing and pulling and digging and making little headway. Mr. Payne appeared with a length of chain in his hand. He fed it through one of the holes in the post, looped it around a rail, and used the chain as a lever to effortlessly lift the post out of the ground. To me it was like a magic trick.
“Just leave my chain by the shop door when you’re done,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
Another time Doug and I had spent about 20 minutes trying to maneuver my new couch through the front door. Mr. Payne appeared with a tape measure, measured the couch, then used his hands to show us what he meant as, he said, “Turn it like this, then lift, then set it on its end, then spin it, then ease it the rest of the way inside.”
He walked away without waiting to see if he would be right. He already knew he was. By this point I did too.
“He doesn’t say much, does he,” Doug said.
“Nope,” I said. “He doesn’t.” And inwardly I smiled, realizing his appearances, while still a little scary, were also becoming welcome.
Later that summer I knocked on his door. “I’m thinking of taking that wire fence down,” I said. “I know it’s on my property but it’s right on the edge of yours … so if you want me to leave it there, I will.”
For the first time I saw Mr. Payne smile. “Son,” he said, “I can’t stand that fence. It blocks our view of the river.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Let’s go take that eyesore down.”
From then on we were pals. He took me fishing in his rowboat. He showed me how to dip for suckers. He let me use his shop and pick from his garden and visit on the porch some evenings before he and Beulah went inside to watch their shows.
And over the years every time I needed help — even if I didn’t realize I needed help — he would appear, sometimes with tools but always with gentle advice. I was glad because he knew it all but he wasn’t a know-it-all; there’s a huge difference.
Then when I had kids he treated them like they were his grandchildren. In fact the only time he got mad at me was the day he asked where Brandy was. “She’s in her crib sleeping like a hog,” I answered.
He didn’t speak to me for a week. Later Beulah told me he didn’t appreciate “that beautiful little girl being compared to a hog.”
For years my parents came up from Richmond on the weekends, first to help me finish the house (it still needed work when I bought it) and then to help me add on as my family grew. Mr. Payne had strolled over to check on the day’s progress one day as they were leaving.
“Make sure he stays out of trouble,” my father said to him.
“Oh, I always do,” Mr. Payne answered, and I saw an unspoken understanding pass between them.
I was an adult but I still needed “raising” and Mr. Payne had willingly accepted a torch passed between two practical men who take care of their own — whether “own” is by blood, or friendship, or simply because it’s the right thing to do.
We become adults at eighteen but I don’t think we’re really grown up until we’re in our thirties. I was lucky enough to have two great men raise me: First my father, then Mr. Payne.
His first name was Paul but until he passed away I never stopped calling him Mr. Payne. I never stopped seeing him as older, wiser, and deserving of my respect.
All these years later, I still miss him. You would too.
Jeff Haden lives in Harrisonburg. He can be reached at www.blackbirdinc.com.
I moved into my first house in Bridgewater when I was 23. It was the middle of winter and I was starting from scratch and the last thing on my mind was mowing the lawn. Then April came and while the grass didn’t look that high to me it clearly did to my next-door neighbor, Mr. Payne.
“N-no,” I stammered, “I’m going to buy one tomorrow.” He nodded and walked away.
I let out a breath. Until then we had not spoken but I had seen him outside and he intimidated me in the way grizzled, unsmiling, overall-wearing men who have lived a life of practical competence intimidate kids still playing at being adults.
A few weeks later I was struggling to pull up split-rail fence posts, pushing and pulling and digging and making little headway. Mr. Payne appeared with a length of chain in his hand. He fed it through one of the holes in the post, looped it around a rail, and used the chain as a lever to effortlessly lift the post out of the ground. To me it was like a magic trick.
“Just leave my chain by the shop door when you’re done,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
Another time Doug and I had spent about 20 minutes trying to maneuver my new couch through the front door. Mr. Payne appeared with a tape measure, measured the couch, then used his hands to show us what he meant as, he said, “Turn it like this, then lift, then set it on its end, then spin it, then ease it the rest of the way inside.”
He walked away without waiting to see if he would be right. He already knew he was. By this point I did too.
“He doesn’t say much, does he,” Doug said.
“Nope,” I said. “He doesn’t.” And inwardly I smiled, realizing his appearances, while still a little scary, were also becoming welcome.
Later that summer I knocked on his door. “I’m thinking of taking that wire fence down,” I said. “I know it’s on my property but it’s right on the edge of yours … so if you want me to leave it there, I will.”
For the first time I saw Mr. Payne smile. “Son,” he said, “I can’t stand that fence. It blocks our view of the river.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Let’s go take that eyesore down.”
From then on we were pals. He took me fishing in his rowboat. He showed me how to dip for suckers. He let me use his shop and pick from his garden and visit on the porch some evenings before he and Beulah went inside to watch their shows.
And over the years every time I needed help — even if I didn’t realize I needed help — he would appear, sometimes with tools but always with gentle advice. I was glad because he knew it all but he wasn’t a know-it-all; there’s a huge difference.
Then when I had kids he treated them like they were his grandchildren. In fact the only time he got mad at me was the day he asked where Brandy was. “She’s in her crib sleeping like a hog,” I answered.
He didn’t speak to me for a week. Later Beulah told me he didn’t appreciate “that beautiful little girl being compared to a hog.”
For years my parents came up from Richmond on the weekends, first to help me finish the house (it still needed work when I bought it) and then to help me add on as my family grew. Mr. Payne had strolled over to check on the day’s progress one day as they were leaving.
“Make sure he stays out of trouble,” my father said to him.
“Oh, I always do,” Mr. Payne answered, and I saw an unspoken understanding pass between them.
I was an adult but I still needed “raising” and Mr. Payne had willingly accepted a torch passed between two practical men who take care of their own — whether “own” is by blood, or friendship, or simply because it’s the right thing to do.
We become adults at eighteen but I don’t think we’re really grown up until we’re in our thirties. I was lucky enough to have two great men raise me: First my father, then Mr. Payne.
His first name was Paul but until he passed away I never stopped calling him Mr. Payne. I never stopped seeing him as older, wiser, and deserving of my respect.
All these years later, I still miss him. You would too.
Jeff Haden lives in Harrisonburg. He can be reached at www.blackbirdinc.com.