A friendship I never went looking for. One afternoon, while I was sitting on the screened porch with a book in my lap…
… I noticed someone walking across the yard toward our house.
… I noticed someone walking across the yard toward our house.
It was our neighbor.
I’d seen him before, but we’d never really met.
He was tall, probably close to six feet, with neatly combed gray hair that never quite stayed that way after working in the yard. A little gray beard stubble covered his face. He looked to be somewhere in his seventies. To an eight-year-old boy, that seemed really old.
But you’d never know it by the way he moved.
I’d seen him before, but we’d never really met.
He was tall, probably close to six feet, with neatly combed gray hair that never quite stayed that way after working in the yard. A little gray beard stubble covered his face. He looked to be somewhere in his seventies. To an eight-year-old boy, that seemed really old.
But you’d never know it by the way he moved.
He still did all of his own yard work, tended his garden, and fixed whatever needed fixing.
His one-piece work coveralls had probably been white years before. Now they looked like a scrapbook of every project he’d ever tackled.
His one-piece work coveralls had probably been white years before. Now they looked like a scrapbook of every project he’d ever tackled.
He stopped outside the screened porch.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Sure.”
The screen door squeaked open and slapped shut behind him.
“You must be Billy.”
I nodded.
“You can call me Mr. Arnold.”
“It’s good to see you outside.” Then he pointed toward a little building behind his house.
“Come on.”
“I want to show you the Doghouse.” The hand-painted sign over the wide doors simply read:
The Doghouse.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Sure.”
The screen door squeaked open and slapped shut behind him.
“You must be Billy.”
I nodded.
“You can call me Mr. Arnold.”
“It’s good to see you outside.” Then he pointed toward a little building behind his house.
“Come on.”
“I want to show you the Doghouse.” The hand-painted sign over the wide doors simply read:
The Doghouse.
Inside, every tool had its place. Garden tools. Power tools. Gas cans. Oil. Extension cords. If Mr. Arnold owned it, he knew exactly where it belonged.
The whole place smelled of fresh-cut grass, old wood, motor oil… and pipe tobacco.
Even today, if I catch that combination of smells, I’m eight years old again.
The whole place smelled of fresh-cut grass, old wood, motor oil… and pipe tobacco.
Even today, if I catch that combination of smells, I’m eight years old again.
Most afternoons I’d wander over.
Sometimes Mr. Arnold was already there.
Pipe packed.
Chair tilted back.
Neither of us in any hurry to say much.
After a comfortable silence he’d smile.
“Thought you might be coming over today.”
Then…
“Billy…”
“Did I ever tell you about the time…” I can’t tell you many of those stories today.
The details have faded.
But I remember Mr. Arnold telling them.
I’d hang on every word.
Every pause.
Every grin.
Every laugh.
The stories were about ordinary people living ordinary lives.
Mr. Arnold had a gift.
He could make ordinary life feel extraordinary.
Sometimes Mr. Arnold was already there.
Pipe packed.
Chair tilted back.
Neither of us in any hurry to say much.
After a comfortable silence he’d smile.
“Thought you might be coming over today.”
Then…
“Billy…”
“Did I ever tell you about the time…” I can’t tell you many of those stories today.
The details have faded.
But I remember Mr. Arnold telling them.
I’d hang on every word.
Every pause.
Every grin.
Every laugh.
The stories were about ordinary people living ordinary lives.
Mr. Arnold had a gift.
He could make ordinary life feel extraordinary.
It took me years to understand why.
The stories were never really about the stories.
Hidden inside each one was a little piece of life.
Mr. Arnold never announced the lesson.
He simply wove it into the story.
I wasn’t sitting there being taught.
I was sitting there being entertained.
The learning just came along for the ride.
The very best stories don’t tell people what to think.
They invite them along for the journey… and let them discover the truth for themselves. It took me a lifetime to understand what really happened.
I thought I’d found a storyteller.
Truth is…
I’d found my first best friend in the neighborhood.
And I’d like to think…
Mr. Arnold found one too.
The stories were never really about the stories.
Hidden inside each one was a little piece of life.
Mr. Arnold never announced the lesson.
He simply wove it into the story.
I wasn’t sitting there being taught.
I was sitting there being entertained.
The learning just came along for the ride.
The very best stories don’t tell people what to think.
They invite them along for the journey… and let them discover the truth for themselves. It took me a lifetime to understand what really happened.
I thought I’d found a storyteller.
Truth is…
I’d found my first best friend in the neighborhood.
And I’d like to think…
Mr. Arnold found one too.
I never once thought about the years between us.
Neither did Mr. Arnold. Late every afternoon Mrs. Arnold would call,
“Arnold… Supper’s ready.”
Mr. Arnold would grin, tap the ashes from his pipe, and stand.
“Well, Billy…”
“I guess it’s time for me to get out of the Doghouse.”
We’d both laugh.
I’d head home.
And if the weather was nice…
I’d probably wander right back over tomorrow.
Because my first best friend in the neighborhood always had another story waiting.
Neither did Mr. Arnold. Late every afternoon Mrs. Arnold would call,
“Arnold… Supper’s ready.”
Mr. Arnold would grin, tap the ashes from his pipe, and stand.
“Well, Billy…”
“I guess it’s time for me to get out of the Doghouse.”
We’d both laugh.
I’d head home.
And if the weather was nice…
I’d probably wander right back over tomorrow.
Because my first best friend in the neighborhood always had another story waiting.
← Previous ChapterThe First Steps BackChoose a ChapterNext Chapter →Wonderfully Ordinary