I moved from Virginia to Pennsylvania about six years ago. Calling it a change of pace would have been a massive understatement — it was a complete change of setting. Going from the warm, sun-soaked residential neighborhood in Virginia to the dreary, dark hills of Pennsylvania was like going through withdrawal. When we moved in, we were greeted by friendly faces and warm introductions to the neighborhood, which eased the blow of moving significantly. Surrounded by several people my age and very welcoming neighbors, I found the neighborhood to be incredibly pleasant. We were introduced to all the houses surrounding us within a day and everyone brought baked goods, dinner, or some gift to greet us. 

By our first week, we had met everyone except the house that was directly across from us. They simply had not said a word. The house lay hauntingly across the street, the grass overgrown and the windows blocked by some unseen object. It was two stories with broken siding and dislodged roof shingles, and it had a backyard that looked like a jungle. My young, childish mind saw it as a haunted house, like Dracula’s lair, and I had an acute fascination with it. 

My parents went over with a tin of cookies and introduced themselves. An old man and his wife emerged, looking frail. They looked like an old tower that was slowly crumbling to dust. They exchanged quick conversation and without lingering long, returned to the safety of our house. We never held a real interaction with them until months later. 

Time passed, and as I got to know other kids in the neighborhood, I gained knowledge of the rumors about the neighbors. Rumors that they hoarded old objects, and that random stuff was piled to the ceiling in the house. Rumors that they couldn’t take care of their lawn, so it would grow knee-high until some reluctant neighbor would cut it for them. I quickly gained the notion that they were “weird” and I should steer clear of them at any cost. Whenever I would question my parents about them, they would just shrug off the topic or tell me not to be nosey. 

Winter came before I knew it, and snow accumulated quickly. Because of my parents’ suggestion, I was walking from house to house trying to get money in exchange for shoveling driveways. After I had shoveled most of the houses I could, my Dad told me to go across the street and do the neighbor’s for free. Dread filled me with the thought, but I reluctantly abided. While I was shoveling the driveway, I noticed an old 1970 Cadillac coupe in their garage. As I peered in for a better look, I was filled with fascination and awe. When I went home, I told my parents all about the car and they told me I should go over and ask him about it and maybe I would learn something about him. I shrugged off the idea like a bad joke and forgot about the car until the summer. 

The summer was a profit for me. I mowed several lawns and racked up a good amount of money. After looking across the street and noticing the size of the grass in the neighbor’s yard, my parents again instructed me to help them. I reluctantly trudged across the street for a three-hour-long, grueling lawn care session in my neighbor’s yard. Near the tail end of me mowing, my neighbor came out to thank me and offer me money for my effort. It was the first time I had seen him face-to-face, and he looked even frailer than I had imagined. He was nicer than I thought and after going through some small talk with him, I hesitantly inquired about the Cadillac. His face lit up and he told me it was his prized possession. He also let me know I could stop by to look at it with him.

Later that night, I consulted my parents and they decided that it was fine if I go and look at the car the next day. I was still scared walking, but I felt more comfortable knowing that he wasn’t the monster I imagined. The minute I got into the house I was shocked. The rumors were true — piles and piles of junk so high, it touched the ceiling in places. We had to clear a path just to be able to comfortably walk to the garage, which to my surprise, was obsessively clean with only some remnants of old newspapers on the floor. He showed me around the car, pointing out all of the details and functions of it. I could see the passion for the car in his gaze and he obsessed on every tiny detail. After examining and thoroughly cleaning the car, he offered to get me some soda and watch NASCAR. I hung out with him all day and gained a new understanding of their situation.

Time passed and not much changed. I greeted him when I saw him and still mowed and shoveled at his house. I felt better knowing that he was different than I had imagined, but I never went back to his house again. 

The next winter, I looked out my window to see several ambulances at his house. It was the buzz of the neighborhood, and people stood on the sidewalk to figure out what was going on. It turned out that he had a heart attack and passed away. I felt sorry that he died, but not exactly grief, just a feeling of sadness that he passed. Out of everyone in the neighborhood, we were the only people invited to his funeral, along with his family and friends. During the ceremony, his wife called me over and told me how highly he thought of me. She told me that he often referred to me as “Mini Me” and that he always looked forward to seeing me. She told me how they did not have many people, so even the small interactions I had with him meant a lot. It’s funny how much you can mean to someone without even knowing. I’m just glad that I made someone’s life a little easier.