Growing up, I have vivid warm memories of my grandparents. They lived up the hill from me, surrounded by the embrace of a lush mountain. Their home was a sanctuary, not just for me, but for anyone fortunate enough to call them neighbors. Grandparents, as I’ve come to appreciate, are indeed the best neighbors one could ask for.

The journey to their hideaway began with a walk up a big hill—following a gravel path, just wide enough to accommodate a single vehicle. Back then, it was a hill that we frequently ran up to catch the bus. It is just as big now as it seemed back then. As you reached the top of the hill, you were sometimes met with a dog or two. I don’t remember any of the dogs being unfriendly. Around the bend, our mailboxes sat. When visiting my grandparents we were often asked to grab the newspaper on our way up. One more small climb and past my aunt and uncle’s house, the path was lined with green, full, luxuriant trees. Here and there, fruit trees stood in quiet abundance, offering apples, cherries, and peaches. My grandfather, with his green thumb, seemed to coax life from the soil with everything he touched. His garden was a marvel that could have rivaled something akin to the garden of Eden. It burst with vibrant produce that seemed to stand up reaching its arms to the sun.

Along the driveway, a raspberry bush thrived, its berries plump and red, a testament to my grandfather’s care. I remember little drops of water still remaining on them from the morning dew. Maybe it was my grandfather often saying, “Stay out of the raspberry bush!” that made eating them even more secretive and special. Or it was picking them myself that made the labor even more sweet. Whatever it was, my memory of those raspberries rivaled any raspberry I have ever tasted since.

Stepping into my grandparents’ home, warmth enveloped you like a comforting hug in the front living room. Often, a fire cracks in the fireplace, its heat casting a feeling of calmness. My grandfather was always happy to see me. However, if he was taking a nap, we made sure to slowly open the front door. We did not want to wake him from his peaceful slumber. Just around the corner, smells burst out of the kitchen. My grandmother, with her culinary magic, filled the air with tasty aromas. Her kitchen table was a treasure trove of delights. You never knew what delicious treat you would find. As you glanced around, your eyes easily got glued to the decadent double-decker chocolate cake. It sat dripping with chocolatey moisture splendor under a glass dome. Her cooking, a symphonious blend of love and intuition. She never used a recipe. No matter how hard I tried, I have never been able to create something like her. Chicken and dumplings that made your taste buds scream. Succulent roast that shredded perfectly with every bite. Stacks of cinnamon French toast with butter crisp edges. Whatever she made, she had a secret ingredient. Was it love or butter? Whatever made it special, it was truly something that would have won any cooking show of the day!

In our neighborhood, family ties ran deep, with the homes of relatives dotting the landscape on my mom’s side. It was a place where everyone knew everyone, and no one ever went hungry. My grandfather was the embodiment of a good neighbor. He was always ready to lend a hand. He plowed snow for almost the entire road and neighbors driveways in winter. He offered support in times of need. His reputation was one of respect, a legacy felt by all who knew him.

Being a good neighbor, as my grandparents taught me, means sharing your bounty. Always lending a helping hand and supporting one another through life’s challenges. They exemplified the spirit of generosity. This same generosity, love and care was passed down to all my aunts and uncles. Who would give the shirt off their backs to anyone who needed it. Even a family of 18 children a little way down the road echoed this sentiment. Often opening their doors and hearts to all who visited, no matter how many mouths there were to feed.

My grandparents did not have much in terms of material wealth, but they possessed a richness that transcended worldly possessions. They made the most of what they had, and that abundance of spirit made them truly wealthy. My grandfather’s garden was a testament to his nurturing nature. As he quietly tended to his plants, he demonstrated that small, thoughtful actions cultivate growth within a community. Their hilltop home was more than just a physical space. It was a sanctuary of love and care that filled my heart with warmth every time I visited. You never knew who you would see at their home. It could be relatives from long ago, friends from the past, neighbors talking shop, or aunts, uncles and cousins. Inside, the cozy living room offered solace and understanding. Where I would sit with a slice of cake and my granny by my side. We shared stories and laughter, often drifting into peaceful naps by the fire. Those cherished moments, infused with love and support, laid the foundation for a neighborhood. Embracing and nurturing all who entered.

Grandparents, with their wisdom and compassion, create a legacy of community that enriches our lives. Their love and care are the bedrock upon which we build our homes. Fostering a world where everyone can grow and thrive. Their legacy lives on in the little acts of kindness. This is what it truly means to be a good neighbor—kindness. Proving that real wealth is found in passing down these traditions to our kids, relatives, and neighbors. It ensures that future generations thrive in the love and generosity that was shared with us.

The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life” – Rabindranath Tagore

Below: a photo of my grandfather. He was the best trainer. He trained many dogs and horses to do just about anything. He trained horses to literally put themselves back up in their stalls. He trained dogs make the long walk to the mailbox to get the newspaper. When they returned, they gently laid the newspaper on my grandfather’s lap. Making sure not to wake him if he was taking a nap. My grandfather didn’t say much but, when he did, they listened.