Kind Neighbors

Winter Neighbors

By Becca Brin Manlove

I moved from the woods north of Ely into the town of Babbitt in November of 2018. I’d sold the thirteen acres and log home my late husband, Mike, and I had built, where we raised our kids, and welcomed so many friends and family. I had called the land Rendre, meaning “to return home” and for thirty-four years it had been home. In my new place, sadness wafted from the cushions on my couch, lurked in the books on my shelves, tangled with the blankets on my bed.

I sold Rendre for two reasons. In the spring, I’d tumbled through a trapdoor into the crawlspace, dislocating my shoulder on the way down. Crouched in pain, waiting for First Responders, I had to admit caring for my house and land was too much for one person— at least too much for me. Also, my neighbors were too far away to hear my cries for help. If my phone hadn’t tumbled into the crawlspace with me, I’d have been down there a long time.

The second reason for selling was more compelling, exciting, joyful. My daughter was expecting my first grandchild. She and her husband wanted me to retire in the spring and provide daycare for them when her maternity leave ran out. Their home was forty minutes’ drive from Rendre and only six minutes from Babbitt. Trying to push away the sadness, I listed positives for this new house. The wood floors gleamed gold and peach. The inspector assured me the previous owner had done a great job upgrading and insulating this little house. My favorite room was an oddly-shaped space, part of an addition on the back that I claimed as a library. And in the backyard, four clumps of cedars with wending boles and plump crowns provided a screen from the backdoor neighbors. Trouble was, I couldn’t see those cedars from inside unless I was standing on a stepstool looking out windows that were higher than I am tall.

And it wasn’t Rendre. There we lived in the middle of our thirteen acres. Every window framed a seasonal view of trees. I could step out onto the deck and hear birdsong, wolves howling, or wind rolling like waves through the trees. Mantis could wander off leash. In the new house, a streetlight rather than the moon cast light into the house all night. Standing in my back yard, I could hear conversations between neighbors in theirs. Mantis was always on leash. She moved to the end of her leash and looked away as I collected her poop in little bags and carried it home. I felt exposed, as if stepping into a smalltown bar and everyone turns to assess the newcomer. Is she an intruder or a potential friend? The front window looked out into the picture windows of other houses. My new neighbors were uncomfortably close and still strangers.

November is a crappy month for meeting neighbors. Walking my old dog, Mantis, around the neighborhood helped. We met a backdoor neighbor as he deep fried his Thanksgiving turkey in his driveway. A woman across the street stepped out every morning to exercise at the Community Center just when I was out walking Mantis before I took off for work in Ely. As snow fell, I met one man where our sidewalks converge. My yard has narrow strips of ground between my house and garage, between driveway and house, between the neighbors’ driveway and mine. Those neighbors and I gingerly piled snow between us. That first winter, snow just kept falling. Where to put it all?

In late January, my four siblings came in rotating visits to see our mom. She was in hospice at Carefree in Ely. In the midst of their visits, my daughter went into labor. In my excitement to get to Duluth to support Celin, I nearly took the door off my car as I backed

out of the garage. My sister Sharon offered to drive me. We churned through heavy fresh snow as we fishtailed our way out of the driveway. Celin’s labor lasted four days. She was turned away from the delivery floor four times that weekend. Later, we learned that the unit was full. They delivered as many babies in that weekend as they normally do in a month. Maybe a record-setting polar vortex had something to do with so many newborns popping into the world.

Ailish’s arrival is a joyful story in itself, but one for a different essay. The night of her birth day I stayed in a motel with two of my sisters. The next morning one sister was able to fly out, but snowstorms in the Midwest caused flight cancellations. My sister Yvonne was stuck for another day. We were in a coffee shop rearranging our plans when my phone rang. It was a nurse at Carefree telling me Mom was close to death. Yvonne and I immediately prepared to dash back to Ely. The phone rang again. It was Celin. She’d been diagnosed with HELPP Syndrome (a severe form of preeclampsia) and would be receiving IV magnesium until the following day. She was hoping I’d come hang out with them in the hospital, but when she heard about her grandma, she urged me to go back to Ely.

Yvonne went directly to Ely where she kept vigil with Mom until that evening when she had to drive back to Duluth for her flight out. I ran by my house to change clothes and gather mail. I parked on the street in front of my home, exhausted, elated about Ailish’s arrival, worried about Celin, and deeply sad about my mom. Dreading two hours of hard shoveling, I looked with bleary eyes to where I expected a berm of snow from the plows. Instead, the entry to the driveway was clear, the snowbank cut back neatly by a snowblower. IThe author and her new granddaughter

stumbled to where I could see the whole driveway and stared in amazement. The entire driveway was clear. At the backdoor, I found the steps shoveled and swept.

I cried then. Gratitude burbled through me. I opened the door carefully, hoping to find a note so I would know who to thank. No note. My next-door neighbor came out. She said she’d thought about clearing it for me, but someone else beat her to it. She didn’t know who, but listed a couple of suspects.

When I joined my sister at Mom’s bedside, kindness abounded there too. Hospice workers were stretched pretty thin just then. Maybe the vortex pulled people out of life as much as it pulled babies into it. The Carefree staff, however, treated Mom as good neighbors would, looking out for ways to make her comfortable. They looked after me, too.

My sister drove back to Duluth that night. The temperatures were still dangerously subzero. I thrust an old sleeping bag and some other winter survival gear at her. She was driving a rental, staying in a motel near the airport. I told her to give the stuff to the motel owners to re-use or donate as they saw fit.

The next day I went back to Carefree to sit with Mom. Like a guardian angel, my friend Jennifer appeared outside Carefree without warning. I was sitting with Mom but wishing I could leave to welcome my daughter, her husband, and our newborn Ailish as they came home from the hospital. Jennifer took note of Mom’s needs and returned with Joel, her husband, to sit with Mom while I ran back to Babbitt with a meal for the new parents. Jennifer and Joel were with Mom when she died. And so it was from a friend that I first heard Mom was gone. I was able to gather my tiny granddaughter to my heart while my daughter held me to hers before I went to say goodbye to my mother’s body. I believe Mom’s spirit was wrapped up with the three of us.

Mom passed away the day after I found my driveway cleared. She was released from ten years of Alzheimer’s indignities and found my dad waiting for her, I’m sure.

No one in my Babbitt neighborhood knew why I’d been gone that weekend. I had only a nodding acquaintance with

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just a few of them, but suddenly every neighbor took on an aura of kindness. What had seemed a winter-bleak street, strangers peering at me from behind their curtains as I followed my old dog around the block, became instead a lane of homes, golden with lamplight, harboring kind souls. One neighbor lifted spirits with generous Christmas lights. Another blew up a waving Santa each dusk. At Lossings, the neighborhood hardware (and so much more) store, I bought a snowblower from Paula and Dave. Dave even delivered it to my house and gave me a demonstration on running it. With so much kindness coming my way, I looked for ways to pay it forward and noticed others doing the same. People righted each other’s rolling garbage cans, helped clear plow berms, kept an eye on each other’s homes, and on each other.

Since that first hard winter I’ve had other surprise driveway clearings from other neighbors. Although I’m pretty sure of who it was that cleared it that first time, he has never admitted it. I found kindness in abundance in other places, too. The librarians in our little public library welcomed me to town, pickleball players patiently taught me the game, city workers cleared not just streets but also trails through town so that my dog and I could meander as far as her old legs would carry her. People maintained ski trails, churches, and the Community Center. City employees kept a room full of exercise equipment available and community education staff opened the school pool for lap swimming, each for small fees. Pickleball, the pool, and the exercise room closed during COVID. Our librarians offered curbside service. Neighbors kept their distance but still

used their snowblowers, shovels, plows, and groomers to keep everyone safe but connected; to give everyone freedom to walk or ski or snowmobile. Woodland Builders, also good neighbors, installed a big window and a door in my favorite room. Now sunrise breaks through the cedars and throws rainbows around the books and furniture. Sometimes I spy deer bedded under the branches. I saw a coyote pass through once. Our brave winter birds, chickadees and finches, nuthatches and ravens perch on wires, branches, and snowbanks. Sometimes sadness still wafts from a book or a memento, but the incense of love and kindness gently clears it away. Glimpses I catch of my neighbors are cast in colors of caring and warmth. Winter neighbors—beneath bulky layers beat big generous hearts.

The Ely Echo has collected stories and made Good Citizen awards to helpful neighbors. About 90% of them involved snow removal. If you’re fit and have a shovel, your less fit neighbors will no doubt appreciate a bit of help.