Good fences make good neighbors

I have always been blessed with good neighbors

     We have lived in five different places in Rochelle, and we have always had good neighbors.
     Never any conflict, arguments, tiffs or disputes.....just nice people who put up with the Dickows.
     Our new neighborhood is the same way.  We talk to the people, they are friendly, everyone seems happy with each other.   That's a nice feeling.
     But I hear stories of other people in other areas who don't have it so good.  The lady who has a neighbor with a dog that barks all night, outside; the woman in the suburbs who lives next to a person with roosters that crow at all hours of the morning; the in-laws of my nephew who are dealing with a neighbor who has a compost heap that isn't a compost heap.  They put all food in it...meat, cheese, whatever, and the pile is attracting animals.  And they don't use the compost....they don't even have a garden.  The have lived next door to each other for years and this has suddenly become a problem.  Go figure.
     When we lived on Southview we had some people a couple of houses down who always waved, said hello, seemed OK.  When police raided their house and announced they had committed over 100 burglaries in northern Illinois, we started locking our doors.
     When I was a kid I lived in an apartment building owned by my grandmother.  My family was on the third floor in the front, Aunt Betty and granny were in the back.  I remember some of the other people who were in the building...the man who played saxophone, the salesmen who was Ward Bonds brother, the woman on the first floor who smelled funny but had butterscotch candies...but I don't remember their names.
     Across the street from the apartment was a threesome of 1890 Victorians.  We eventually moved into the middle one and the neighbors on both sides of us were, well, different, but nice.  The family on the alley side were rumored to be Romanian, and the people on the west side were Irish.
     Now I was not the most alert kid in the world.
     City kids play a game called Pinner.....or something like that.  You have steps and a rubber ball.  The batter throws the ball into the steps and the opposing player catches it.  If you hit the steps on the edge, usually it flies.  Concrete steps work best.
     Anyway, I was playing Pinner by myself (note....that is not a sexual reference) and noticed the grandpa of the Irish family was having trouble getting up the stairs.  He fell about half way.
      I ran across the street, helped him up, got him going and went back to my game, only to see him roll down the stairs a second time.
      I again went over, helped him up, got him going up the stairs, turned around and down he rolled.
      I think it was the first time I ever encountered someone really drunk.  I helped that old fart up four times, and he rolled down the stairs four times.
      After he hit the ground the last time, I just left him there.  I figured if I helped him any more, he could get hurt.
      Eventually one of the adults came home and hauled him inside.
      I like to think I was a good neighbor.  When I saw him the next day, he said nothing about what happened.....and he walked a little funny, like he maybe hurt himself rolling down some stairs over and over.
     But my intentions were good, because I was a good neighbor, despite my youth.