When I hear the word “neighbours” I always get the same picture in my mind of Mr. Rogers. He takes off his dress shoes and blazer and puts on his cardigan and loafers. He makes himself comfortable at home while singing that cheery little tune asking me to be his neighbour. I think back to my childhood neighbourhood now and I realize that it was less than sunshine and flowers. My neighbours were common, ordinary, everyday people. You know: strange.

My family moved to small town Alberta from the Maritimes when I was all of two years old. I, alas, don’t remember our first neighbours, many of whom were also relatives. This could have turned into a whole other article had I any memories of that crowd. It’s one thing trying to grasp the nature of human peculiarities; it’s another seeing that you’re directly related to it and it’s still incomprehensible.

We, however, ended up west. It was me, mom, dad, two older sisters, and an older brother. We were an early tide of easterners drawn to the province’s wealth and opportunity. My parents must have felt so unsure moving away from the tribal nature of eastern Canada’s communities to a fast-paced, productive-oriented environment. Every time we fell upon someone from back east, my father would always engage the folks in an eager conversation tracing the origin and commonalities between us all. Those poor people were caught without an exit door until Dad extracted every bit of information he set out to discover.

Weeks after mom passed away I had to return a neglected message left on her answering machine by one of those old time easterners who had lived around the area. It brought back to me all those funny childhood memories of the people around us as we’re growing up. The time a friend and I spray painted the back fence of the next door neighbour. Criminal geniuses we were, committing a crime nearly in our back yard. No one would figure that it was us. His family moved away some years later as did the family down the street.

As always, things change. The rose-colored glasses that Mr. Rogers viewed the world from behind had lost their bloom as I better understand the dynamics and struggles behind human interaction. I have new neighbours and they hold all the eccentricities of the population at large and are, too, components of my personal history as I am of theirs.

Keri lives in Boyle Street.