The new neighbors knocked on our door for the second time since they moved in a year ago. This is one more time than their predecessors had in the decade we refused to know each other.
When the previous neighbors knocked, it was because we’d shelled out money for a survey to prove they were building on our property. The dude of the house had wanted to convince me, despite the clear evidence of a straight line between two points, that there was a mystery dent in our plot just large enough to accommodate his shed. (This, despite having vastly more land than we do.)
Things improved after something led his departure from the home, but that remained the only “knock, knock — who’s there?” interaction.
Last winter the young woman who’d moved in with her fiancé knocked. They were heading out of town and were used to living in high crime areas. She asked if we could keep an eye on the place, knowing full well that sounded silly. We said sure and handed her a jar of jam. Wendi enjoys handing out her jam almost as much as seeing the pained look on my face when I see it leave the pantry.
Tonight another knock came. They’re digging a trench to put in drainage for their crawl space and wanted to know if we needed a trench for ours while they were renting the tool.
To recap: first neighbors wanted our land and the second neighbors wanted to save us money. I think it’s safe to say we traded up.