The Friendship Fruit

There is a little old man living next door to us. He and his wife are Greek and they have a lovely garden. He is always outside tending it and sometimes, when you look out our front door and over the fence you can see him standing on his stoop, pondering his patch of paradise, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned in quiet satisfaction.

This man's name is George and he is our favourite neighbour.

Our conversations are always brief and stilted, with us speaking loudly, sounding out our words emphatically, and him putting his hand to one ear to ask, "Pardon? I cannot hear you". He is frail now and he moves about carefully. We see him struggle with his wheelie bin on our way out of the drive, so the husband gets out of the car and goes to assist. Our neighbour is both grateful and embarrassed as this younger, stronger man does easily what is now so difficult for him.

This year, we put a Christmas card in George and Helen's mailbox. George was very pleased, thanking me many times over.

Now that I think about it, we know very little about each other. But there is an understanding. A comfort. If we needed to stop by, to borrow a hammer or make a phone call, the door would be answered and a kindness extended.

One day, the husband was out front wielding a broom, attempting to tame the never-ending torrent of leaves in our driveway. He was interrupted by a banging on the fence and turned to see a pair of elderly hands, from elbow down, bent over the top. The hands were filled with apples from the tree that stands in the centre of his yard. "Chris?" he rasped from his side of fence, "would you like apple?". Later George came around the fence and up the driveway with a white plastic bag, full of the fruit from his tree.

There were many more apples than two people could eat. They were beautiful and imperfect. Some of them had been attacked by hungry caterpillars. Others shone like someone had polished them with a soft cloth. Piled high on our bench, they sat symbolic for days before we could bring ourselves to eat them. Then we crunched into them and stewed them with brown sugar and water to mix with our morning porridge. Their taste, like their presence, was sweet and unexpected.

This week, George gave Chris some tomatoes from his vine. They are ripe and juicy, not too hard and not too soft. Each one has unique grooves and yellow tinges. I would like to grow something to offer in return. For now, we keep our eyes peeled for a little old man, struggling with his wheelie bin.

I think the next time George offers us apples, I will use them to bake him and his wife a pie.