Just found out that one of my old neighbors, Wendell Anderson, died yesterday. I hadn’t seen him since my grandpa’s visitation a couple of years ago, and before that, I can’t even guess how long it had been since we’d talked. His wife, Lenore, had died a few years back, and recently my mom told me that Wendell — “Wendy,” as his wife called him — wasn’t doing well, health-wise.

The Andersons lived catty-corner from us, and every evening, all summer long, they’d sit out in their yard in lawn chairs, talking, watching the cars go by and the kids playing in the neighborhood. Sometimes, Mom and Debra and I would go over and talk to them for a while, or we’d stop by when we’d get back from a bike ride.

They had an amazing yard, perfectly landscaped, like something out of a magazine. I didn’t appreciate it back then, of course, but now, as someone who can barely grow dandelions — and, let’s be honest, those have absolutely nothing to do with me! — I am somewhat in awe of how great their place always looked.

Lots of people have left the old neighborhood. Left or died, or both.

Anyhoo, I wrote about the Andersons (sorta) in a bloggie post a couple of years ago. I mean, as usual, it’s mostly about me, but there’s stuff about the old neighborhood, too. Matter of fact, I’m including a link to the whole month of November from that year ’cause, all things considered, it’s one of my better months of writing/shooting/etc.

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