In my country it is often said that your neighbor is like your brother. They are wise words that refer to an ideal situation, the most convenient would be that we could live well with our neighbors, after all they are the ones who are closer to us. However, sometimes indifference and bad habits do not allow that to be possible.
From my childhood years I have no memories of any neighbors. I lived with my parents in an almost rural area on the outskirts of Caracas. At the time we arrived there were very few houses on the site, mostly scattered on the slopes of a mountain.
Almost all of the houses had large lots and you had to walk quite a distance to get from one to another. There were many common problems in the area, such as water and electricity that were solved communally. Anyone would think that this would facilitate relations between neighbors, but in our case this was not the case.
My mother was a woman who was very jealous of her privacy. She didn't like anyone meddling in her home's affairs. Our home was her little kingdom, which she controlled absolutely. She probably knew the neighbors who were close to us, but I don't remember seeing her visiting any nearby houses, nor did our neighbors pass by ours.
My mother's motto was that everyone should mind their own business. She said the best way to keep others from messing with you was not to mess with them. That's why she kept me and my siblings indoors and didn't let us go outside. Most of the time we played by ourselves in our backyard, and occasionally my mother would call another child to come and play with us.
When we reached our teenage years things changed a bit, we were able to go out more and walk around on our own. However, my mother preferred us to have friends in other areas, not in our environment.
It was when I got married that I really got to know the relationships between neighbors.
When my first son was born, they had just opened a new housing development in Maracay, the city where I live. It was a large area of apartments called "Caña de Azúcar".
Those apartments were mainly for new families. They were housing subsidized by the State, and among the requirements to live there was to have small children.
My apartment was located in a tower where there were eighty houses, almost all of them inhabited by young couples with one or two children.
From the beginning we all understood each other very well, we managed to integrate to solve common problems.
My apartment was at the end of a corridor where there were four other apartments. And from the first day my wife and I were very fond of each other, perhaps because she was the only one who did not dedicate herself full time to taking care of her house, since at that time she was studying medicine.
My neighbors were always very considerate of us and were willing to lend us a hand. I remember that when we had another child, my wife was already doing internships at the hospital, sometimes staying there for more than twenty-four hours. On those days any of the neighbors would watch my children until I got home from work. There were four women who took care of my children as if they were their own. They are the best neighbors I have ever known.
Another nice experience of this kind I had when I moved to the north of Maracay. That was a little over thirty-five years ago. My house shared a wall with a neighbor, a rather old Chilean man who lived alone.
For many years Mr. Izturra, that was his last name, had total autonomy, he drove his own vehicle, cooked his own food, cleaned his own plot of land, and sold car lubricants at the door of his house.
One day he told my wife and me that he was getting old, that he felt a bit lonely, and asked us to open a window onto his plot. We accepted the suggestion and opened the window.
From that moment on my wife and I felt the commitment to keep an eye on Mr. Izturra. Several times a day we called him to check on him. My wife would pass him coffee, juices and the occasional meal through the window. Sometimes in the afternoons we would talk for a while through the window. Mr. Izturra was an exceptional man, very cultured, he seemed to know everything. We loved to talk with him.
As time went by he lost his autonomy and his grandchildren decided to take him to a nursing home, where he lasted a few months and finally died. My wife and I still remember Mr. Izturra through that window into the neighboring courtyard, he became a great friend and we were very fond of him.
I am publishing this post motivated by the initiative proposed by my friend @ericvancewalton, Memoir Monday, in its week twelve. For more information click on the link.
Thank you for your time.
Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
Logo creado por @themanualbot
