I went to a memorial recently.

It was for a neighbor. He lived at the end of our street for years. Craig. An ironworker. Nice guy. Divorced. Lived by himself. When he first moved in, we talked regularly, mostly about what country concerts were coming up or fishing, which he loved to do. I told him we’d go out in my boat sometime. But, we never did. And in late November he passed away. I knew he’d gotten hurt on the job a few years ago and wasn’t working anymore. I knew he’d become reclusive. I hadn’t see much of him the last two years or so. But it was a shock. He was only 57.

At the memorial, I learned more about Craig than I had in the 12 years he’d lived not 25 yards away. He grew up in Chico, was a high school football and baseball player. Quite a stud, when he was younger. Great storyteller...funny...likable—that was a word used over and over. So likable. Nicest guy you’d ever want to know. He loved NASCAR and the Miami Dolphins. I learned that, as an ironworker, pretty much any Motel 6 with a stairway built in the past 30 years in Northern California was worked on by Craig, and he was quite proud of that. He loved his kids—you could see that in onscreen images that flashed during a tribute. He loved his friends—you could see that by the number of them in attendance. Heck, two ex-wives and an ex-girlfriend were there. Likeable. I learned the reason he became more withdrawn was a struggle with alcohol, which was exacerbated by his injury. Ultimately, both played a part in his passing. I feel like if I’d made an effort to get to know him better, to be a better neighbor, that maybe, in some way, a difference could have been made…? I don’t know. 

But I wish I had.

A few years before all this, another neighbor passed away. Yvonne. An elderly but spry, tiny little white-haired lady originally from France. She lived one house over. She had a delightful sing-song accent and never failed to greet you with a smile and hello as she went for one of her daily walks. She kept cookies by her door for the neighbor kids. We attended the same church, and if we weren’t there on a given Sunday, she’d ask where we were. She kept her yard immaculate and drove a sweet late model sky-blue Toyota Avalon all over Roseville. I always wanted to invite her over—she grew up in France during World War II. My dad served there. I wanted to share some of his stories, and hear hers. I never did. 

But I wish I had.

At her memorial, I learned she was part of the French Resistance, that she helped Jews and others in danger from Nazi occupation escape via an underground railroad of sorts. She was a courier, riding her bike past enemy soldiers with baskets full of groceries. Missives and messages were hidden in the groceries; the soldiers never suspected that a young teenage girl could be so bold or so brave. She never got caught. She was a badass.

We are all so much more than we appear on the surface. We all have stories. And in this day and age, when it’s easier than ever to metaphorically pull into our collective garages and close the door behind us, I think it’s important to remember that. It’s on all of us to reach out to each other, to go beyond just waving hello or making small talk. To really get to know one another. 

Because we’re all neighbors. 

It’s worth a try. 

 Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1, email him at [email protected], or follow him on Twitter @kncitom.

Article by Tom Mailey  //  Illustrated By David Norby