你好，鄰居！

A not-so-wise man once said， “A good neighbor is a fellow who smiles at you over the back fence， but doesn’t climb over it.” Maybe that’s the definition of a “good”neighbor， but if you want a “great” neighbor， you have to climb over the fence and into their welcoming arms. I believe getting to know your neighbors can deeply enrich your life.

My very first lesson in neighborliness came as a very young white child living in an entirely Mexican neighborhood. My parents had purchased their first home in a new 2）subdivision of East Los Angeles and we were the only non-3）Hispanic family on the block. Mom and Dad kept to themselves—leaving for work early and coming home late—which left my brother and I free to roam the neighborhood and fend for ourselves. No problem. We were immediately barefoot and running free with a dozen new playmates， who seemed not to notice our differences， even when we had the misfortune of turning beet red in the mid-day sun while they remained a beautiful golden brown.

Lunchtime came and went with my brother and I jealously watching all the kids run inside for some mysterious meal we instinctively knew was delicious. In the late afternoon， when I thought I might die from hunger， we heard a voice—an enchanting songstress who called out like a siren beckoning all children to come. We followed and arrived at her back door. Lola， two black braids down her back， arms long（and strong） enough to embrace us all—brown， white， whatever. There she was playing 4）patty cake with a homemade flour 5）tortilla， flipping them hot off the 6）griddle， 7）slathering them with butter， folding them in four and placing them piping hot in each of our 8）grubby little hands. Lola， wise and loving Lola， would become my second mother； wiping my face with her spit when I arrived dirty at her door， offering to help my mom with the housework when it was clear she was overwhelmed， teaching me to love 9）tamales， 10）frijoles， 11）fiestas and pretty much all things Mexican. But most importantly， she was the first to teach me to climb over the fence.

Later in life， my teenage years， now living in the shade of the Hollywood sign surrounded by Palm trees and celebrity sightings， I met my first 12）Bohemian. She was living right next door，and now I knew to knock and explore within. Her name was Juanita. A hundred 13）bangles on her arms， hair swooped up in a French 14）Chignon， multi-colored 15）muumuu swaying as she walked. Inside her incense-filled living room， I learned to love 16）Rachmaninoff and Browning， learned how to analyze and memorize， learned that， while my mother was unable to live up to her role， there would always be someone right next door waiting to fill her shoes.

I must admit there were the years where I took that not-so-wise man’s advice. Poor and living penniless in low-income housing， I could hear the heartbreak of poverty bleeding through the walls. I laid low and refused to knock on the surrounding doors， afraid of what I might find within. Now looking back， I wish perhaps I had been brave enough to be the one who offered a helping hand.

Then there was the gaggle-of-girls-inrecovery I met living apartment life with babies 17）in tow and not a clue how to parent， as all of us had been parented poorly. These five women would become my friends for life as we reached across the fence and into each other’s hearts， sharing the pain of being raised by alcoholic parents and determining to raise our children right. We shared our 18）traumatic pasts and our extra diapers， and eventually healed our big-collective heart， remaining forever neighbors while we now live miles apart.

Dirt under her nails， sweat streaming down her face， and a bountiful basket of homegrown tomatoes offered to me over the fence. Now I live in a neighborhood where the 19）rule of thumb is， “Climb over and come on in.” My neighbor Marie made me realize that tomatoes don’t taste like Christmas ornaments， that， if you’re careful， a stick of butter can be tossed over a fence， that neighbors are the best choice for watching your cats while you’re away， and that dinner should always include a little extra taste for a hungry， and perhaps sometimes lonely， neighbor.

In the twilight of my life， with all too many of my relatives—my blood relations—gone， I find family wherever I can. Tonight I will walk with neighbors to a nearby restaurant to eat and chat about nothing and everything. Tomorrow a group of us will pile in cars and head out to see another neighbor’s artwork on display. We celebrate one another， we meddle in our lives， we consider cutting a hole in the fence to save the dozen steps it takes to walk around it. Climb over， walk through， do whatever it takes to embrace the riches living right next door.

一位未必是智者的人曾經說過：“一位好鄰居是這么一個人：他隔著你家后院的籬笆對你微笑，但不會越籬而來。”也許這便是對于“好”鄰居的定義，但如果你想要一位“佳”鄰，那你就必須翻過籬笆，投入他們熱情的懷抱。我相信，結識你的鄰居能夠大大地充實你的生活。

我最早的一堂關于鄰里友好的人生課來自年幼時，作為一個白人小孩居住在一個純墨西哥人社區的經歷。我的父母在東洛杉磯的一片新住宅區購置了他們的第一所房子，而我們家是這個街區里唯一的非西班牙裔家庭。媽媽和爸爸不跟鄰里來往——為工作早出晚歸——留下我兄弟和我在鄰里間閑逛，照管自己。沒問題。我們立馬就光著腳丫子，自由自在地與一打新玩伴一起四處奔跑，而他們似乎并沒有發覺我們的不同之處，即便是在正午之時，我們會不幸地被陽光曬得渾身通紅，而他們卻依然保持著漂亮的金棕膚色。

午餐時間到了又過了，只剩下兄弟和我滿心嫉妒地看著所有的孩子跑回家去享用一些神秘大餐，那些菜肴我們憑直覺就知道會美味非凡。到了下午晚些時候，當我覺得自己將要餓死時，我們聽到了一個聲音——一個迷人的歌姬像海妖賽壬一樣召喚所有的孩子過去。我們跟隨著聲音來到她家后門。那是蘿拉，身后垂著兩根烏黑的大辮子，手臂長長的（還很強壯）足以擁抱住我們所有人——棕膚色的，白膚色的，無論什么膚色。她正在家中用自制的墨西哥薄餅做成小餡餅，在電煎鍋上快速地翻轉著，涂上厚厚的黃油，把它們折成四份，然后把新鮮熱乎的餡餅放在我們每一雙臟兮兮的小手上。……