I can't see my neighbors' houses.
Sure, there are nights in the winter, when the leaves are gone and the snow isn't blowing and a certain light is on, that I can tell there's a house there.
But most of the time, we live in peaceful oblivion from each other.
I know my neighbors. I know their names and their dogs' names and their kids' and grandkids' names. I especially know what they drive.
But I wouldn't call us friends. We're not enemies either. We're just neighbors.
I'm not sure if it's a result of country living -- the houses are far apart, with trees and fields and swamps in between -- or if it's because of the type of people who live in the country.
When we first moved in, our next-door neighbors introduced themselves, then added, "We like to keep to ourselves."
And they have, for the most part, as have the neighbors on all the other sides of us.
But when something goes awry, they're right there.
For instance, our road isn't high on the priority list for plowing. If there's a storm that dumps a lot of snow on us, it might be a day or two until the county plows us out.
Regardless of when the county clears the road, a neighbor comes through with a plow within hours of the storm. There was even someone who plowed out the end of our driveway. We didn't know who it was for months, until we happened to catch him one dark morning and raced out with a plate of cookies.
When the power goes out, which is fairly common, we share water, batteries and candles if someone has been caught unprepared (which isn't very often because people in the country are prepared for a lot).
If a tree falls on the road, someone's there with a chainsaw within minutes. We all chat and talk about our kids and cars for the few minutes it takes to clear the road, then we go back to minding our own business for the next several months.
If a dog goes missing -- or if one turns up -- there's a door-to-door campaign -- which can take awhile because the doors are so spread out -- until either the found dog has a place to sleep or the lost dog has turned up. We've had more than a few unknown dogs bunking at our house overnight, much to our cat's chagrin.
I'm not saying it's all sunshine and roses. Some people moved into the neighborhood and the first thing they did was put up "No Trespassing" signs. We don't trespass; we don't talk to them at all.
And there are barking dogs and banging guns and our own crowing rooster. But, for the most part, we're not in each others' faces until we're needed.
It seems to be to be the perfect relationship.
Jodee Taylor can be reached at jtaylor@record-eagle.com.
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