My elderly parents live on a regular street in a typical town, but with a difference. A host surrounds them. Angels but without wings and in the form of ordinary people.
Take the pack of kids who live in some nearby apartments. They’re a rough and tumble bunch—scraped up knees, smudged faces, wild hair, and colorful language. And they’ve got my folks covered.
“Mrs. Miller was in her garden this morning,” a kid on a scooter told me when I pulled into the driveway last summer. “But I watched. She didn’t fall.”
Another kid showed up all summer long, a dandelion digger in hand. “Time to check for dandelions again,” he’d say.
One morning, a girl stood at my parents’ door with a plate of Kroger cookies. She sold one to me, for a quarter. For my mom, the cookie was free.
And it’s not just the kids.
My friends and their neighbors send me texts. An upstairs light was on late last night when I ran by. Your dad is in the driveway picking up branches, looking wobbly. Your mom’s good—stopped by and talked a bit.
My parents live near the hospital. So some of their nurses and doctors take a look as they drive by on their way to work.
“Miss seeing you out in your yard,” my dad’s cardiologist said after a recent EKG. “But I’m glad you’re avoiding the cold.”
There’s a saying we’ve long bandied about, an ancient proverb that came to us from across the world: It takes a village. Usually, we apply this phrase to the care of the young. But the old are also vulnerable. And I’m glad my parents have a village. And one that includes the young.
A bevy of these neighborhood kids came to me one morning with a problem.
“How will we know when they die?” they asked. “We want to come to their funeral.”
And when that time comes, I hope I remember these scrappy little angels.
Apple to Apple 