Hand in Hand

There is a house on my block with a yard full of weeds, and windows covered with sheets. (No, it's not my house.) In ten years, I’ve seen the owner darting in or out of his run-down house only once or twice a year. I walk my three dogs (I know) past this dilapidated house almost every night, and recently, I’ve heard strange noises behind the sheets: “Yaaaaahhhhhhhhh! Baaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

A few nights ago, I saw the owner of the unkempt house, walking slowly down the block with a twenty-ish-year old man shuffling a few steps behind him. I had never seen either of them walking around the neighborhood before. On my nightly rounds, the noises continued.

Last night I went on a late night goats’ milk run to the grocery store. As I returned home with my five gallons of milk (that must have been one big goat), I saw the unkempt neighbor and the twenty-year old walking hand in hand, under the cover of night. It all made sense to me. The man had let his house and yard go because he had a disabled kid. The disabled kid was now eighteen and had come to spend time? live? walk around the block? with his father. The pair walked at night so no one would see them. The kid liked to make animal noises (who doesn’t?)

If Errol lives to be eighteen, we will tour the neighborhood hand in hand. And we will walk (or roll), in the morning, at noon, and at night, all over this land. And we are very fortunate to live in a time and place where we don’t have to shut ourselves away from the world.