Sunday, May 11, 2025 – Day 271

Sunday, May 11, 2025


Good morning, friends, family, and curious onlookers.

It’s a strange season in the neighborhood. Within the span of a single year, our tight little community of eight townhomes has shifted more than it had in the previous two decades. I’ve always believed in knowing your neighbors—not just enough for a polite nod, but well enough to lend a tool, share a story, or show up when something breaks. For over 20 years, this has been a place full of life and connection. It has been the connection with our neighbors, that I’ve resisted moving out. These days, though, it feels like that rhythm has changed.

Yesterday, we said goodbye to our friend and neighbor Anna—another cruel loss to cancer. Her husband, Fred, will still be here, but even he admits he’s no substitute for Anna’s warmth and spark. We love Fred, and we’ll find a new balance in our relationship as we adjust to the absence of her presence. Still, the silence where her voice used to be is loud.

Carol, another longtime neighbor, also lost her husband to cancer a few years back. She’s now found new love and is making the leap into a fresh chapter. Before she left, she dropped off an extra Keurig machine—a parting gift that beats muffins or bagels in my book. We waved as the moving truck rounded the corner last night, its engine humming like the soundtrack to yet another goodbye.

Kenn, a neighbor of 20 years who is still technically married, has discovered a second life in Bulgaria. (Not metaphorically—literally Bulgaria.) His home here has become a halfway house for Amazon deliveries and mail between long intercontinental jaunts. Armando, his legal partner, is still living in the unit and learning to adapt to his new normal. Meanwhile, I’ve had to accept that my friendship with Kenn is probably gone for good. It’s a quiet kind of heartbreak, the kind that doesn’t get casseroles or sympathy cards.

A couple of the other townhomes have turned over in recent years. The new residents seem nice enough, but they’re more of the “garage-door-up, car-out” variety. You know the type—blink and you’ll miss them, except for the quick wave as they drive past. Pleasant, but not exactly the kind of neighbors who’ll borrow a ladder or join you on the porch with a cold drink and a good story.

And then there’s our unit. Once upon a time, we were out there all the time—checking in, lending tools, offering help. I earned the nickname “Ace Hardware” for a reason: if you needed a bolt, a bracket, or a miracle fix, odds were I had it. These days, ALS has pushed me to the sidelines. I’m not gone, but I’m less present—more observer than participant. The extrovert in me still wants to wave down the block and ask, “Need a hand?”—but often, my body answers for me.

So, our little community is in transition. A bit quieter. A bit lonelier. But I still believe it will come back to life. In a week, another moving truck will swing around the corner, and I’ll be there with the same welcoming smile, hoping that whoever steps out will bring fresh energy and maybe even a little neighborly spark. And if they happen to need a hex key or an obscure fastener from 1997, well… I’ve still got a drawer for that.

Today is going to be a beautiful day and we will get out to Sew Hop’d brewery with Mark and Barb for more laughter, levity, and libations (only two).

Have a good Sunday.

Love you guys!❤️

Today’s photo is of Nicole with her thumbs up smile and positive attitude. 👍