Alumni Currents
Staying in touch with our family of graduates
BACK TO YOU // BILL GERBER ’84
Flowers, food, and knowing my neighbor
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very year in April when the daffodil fields are blooming here in the Fraser Valley of British Columbia, I look forward to sharing bunches of these cheery fragrant flowers with friends—often the homebound elderly, but also anyone who may need a bit of cheering up. It is like giving a living announcement that spring is here; a literal handful of joy. Last year it seemed everyone needed a little extra cheer, and I as the giver am always rewarded with great smiles, heartwarming visits, and gratitude. In 2020, as COVID-19 was tethering our travels, the idea to give daffodil bouquets to my immediate neighbors popped into my head. Pretty radical idea, eh? It shouldn’t be, but to my shame, I did not know my neighbors very well. Since we moved to our current neighborhood in 2002, 90 percent of the homes have changed hands once, twice, or even three times. Now, all the houses surrounding us—and many more on our street—are home to families with origins in South Asia. Thus, I realized that short of a few brief conversations with the neighbors to my left and right, a few “hellos” and “how are yous,” I no longer knew my neighbors. Some I had never even said a word to. Gone was talkative Gayle with her two adult daughters and grandson, Austin. Gone was delivery truck-driving Calvin and wife, Mindy, and their
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Westwind Summer/Fall 2021
four young kids. Gone was Robert, the Italian drywaller who fixed our water-damaged ceilings twice (for free), and gone was Cam, our backyard fence-sharing/replacing/ expense-sharing neighbor. We weren’t unfriendly (I didn’t think), we were just busy and not paying attention to the ebb and flow of our neighborhood. So it was with flowers in hand that I realized I didn’t even remember when the current neighbors had moved in. It was a sobering thought, but undaunted, off I went. The first five deliveries went as one might expect, with small talk and smiles. It was the last one that didn’t. This was a multigenerational home where the sum total prior interaction was only a few waves with the presumed mom and grandma. I went to the door and knocked. It was just dusk, and I was not warmly received.
I heard footsteps approaching, and the conversation started through the door before it was opened. “Who is it?” “Your neighbor from across the street,” I answered. The door opened. A tall, turbanwearing younger man answered. I later learned his name was Gursimra, or Simran for short. As I held the flowers out to him, he looked at me, then the flowers, then at me again, and asked “What’s that?” I smiled and replied, “Some flowers for you.” He wasn’t taking them. I kept holding them out. It was getting awkward. “What’s that for?” he asked me. I’m not usually short on words, but his question caught me quite flat footed. I stammered as I struggled to come up with a good, unrehearsed answer. I tried to explain it was April, the beginning of a new spring season and the beautiful, bright yellow daffodils are meant to bring smiles and goodwill. I struggled to explain what I thought was a common gesture, but it felt lame. He told me to put the flowers on a chair outside the door at the top of the step. I did, and with not much left to say, we said good night and I turned, kind of embarrassed, and left with my proverbial tail between my legs. I stewed on it a bit, and then in a bravado-filled voice, declared I had a good mind to go back after dark, take the flowers back and give them to someone who would really appreciate them. Well,
