Be genuinely interested in everyone you meet, and everyone you meet will be genuinely interested in you.
~Rasheed Ogunlaru
When our treadmill broke a few days before Christmas, my husband and I didn’t bother to buy a new one. Instead, I told him I would continue my walking routine outdoors. Although it was December and cold outside, I bundled up and hit the asphalt. On one of my first days of getting in a mile and some change through our subdivision, I spotted a dark-haired little boy watching me from his front yard.
I walked through the neighborhood again the next day, and there stood the little boy, staring up at me as I rounded the corner near his driveway. He called out, “Are you that lady from yesterday?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised by his boldness.
With a hopeful smile on his face, he asked, “Hey, can I walk with you?”
His question threw me. A little boy wanted to walk with me? I never had children of my own, although I inherited some wonderful adult children, and then delightful grandchildren, when I married later in life. I was also close to my nieces and nephew, but they hadn’t been little in years. Aside from hosting a few tea parties for my friends’ little girls, I hadn’t been around young children in quite a while.
I looked around and spotted no parents I could ask for permission to walk with the boy. “Are your mom and dad around?” I asked.
“No, just my brother and sister.”
A tween-age boy and girl were nearby, so I approached the girl and said, “I don’t mind if he walks with me, but do you think it’d be okay with your parents? I’m only walking to the end of this road.” I pointed up the hill. “You’ll be able to see us the entire time.”
She shrugged and said, “That’s fine.”
Even as a middle-aged woman, I was cautious about walking with a child I didn’t know, but he was chatty and seemed eager to make a new friend. And that was what the little boy named Ethan became that day — my friend.
His family, new to the neighborhood, had previously lived out in the country. He missed the country, and he missed his grandparents, he said. Before I knew it, he was telling me his parents’ names, his siblings’ names, his phone number, and how he felt about school. (Not good.) He was a refreshingly honest child.
While I hadn’t been too excited about walking outdoors in cold weather, I found myself wrapping up in a heavy coat and gloves for my daily walk, not wanting to disappoint Ethan, who was usually looking for me.
After a few days, he apparently got bored with walking since he said, “Let’s run.”
“Oh, Ethan,” I said. “These knees can’t run.”
“Come on,” he said. “Just try it.”
So I did. I thought I’d have a heart attack before I made it home, but I ran — up the hill, I might add. I told my husband later that I suspected someone had secretly hired Ethan to serve as my personal trainer.
As an introvert and someone who works from home, I hadn’t yet made a habit of getting to know my neighbors, but Ethan changed all that. “Do you know Mrs. Carol?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “Who’s that?”
“She lives in the gray house. Let’s go see her.”
I was forever telling Ethan that we couldn’t just barge in on the neighbors to say “hello.” He would look at me as if to ask, “Why not?”
One day as Ethan and I were walking, “Mrs. Carol” was standing outside, and Ethan ran ahead of me to say “hello” to her. Quickly, I realized I wasn’t Ethan’s only new friend in the neighborhood. Thanks to Ethan, I soon got to know not only “Mrs. Carol,” but “Mrs. Amanda” and her children, too.
My friendship with Ethan was not without its challenges. He was a nosy child, for one thing. When he learned I had a husband, he wanted to meet him, so I had to make the introduction so Ethan could check him out.
Late one Friday afternoon, I had skipped my walk, and as I pulled into the garage and parked, I saw two small bicycles pulling up behind me — Ethan and a friend.
“Where have you been?” Ethan demanded.
“The bookstore.”
“Who were you with?”
“One of my girlfriends.”
“What were y’all doing?”
“Talking.”
“Can I meet her?”
I had to remind myself which of us was the middle-aged grown-up and which of us was the child.
By the time Halloween rolled around, I had grown quite fond of Ethan and his siblings, and I dropped off Halloween treat bags for them since I wasn’t going to be home that night to greet trick-or-treaters. The next day on my walk, I was happy to see Ethan and hoped to learn he had enjoyed the treats. But he didn’t mention them. No “I got them,” no “thank you,” no nothing. So, I prodded.
“Did you have a nice Halloween, Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get to go trick-or-treating?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Get some good candy?”
“Yes.”
Still, not a word about my oh-so-cute treat bags. Finally, I broke down and asked, “Did you get the treats I left for you and your brother and sister yesterday?”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
Well? I thought.
After a momentary pause, he said, “I don’t like Butterfingers.”
It was all I could do not to laugh.
“But don’t worry, my dad ate ’em.”
When I shared the story with “Mrs. Carol,” she told me that Ethan had already informed her which candy was his favorite, so she’d made sure to have it for him. I would know better next time.
As often happens in a neighborhood, people come and go, and Ethan mentioned that his family might be moving. I’d gotten to know his mom by then and thought they wanted to move back to the country where there was more room for the kids — and the family’s dogs — to roam and play. I couldn’t argue with that.
Before I knew it, Ethan and his family had disappeared. I never saw a moving truck, and there were no goodbyes, which I actually didn’t mind. I hate goodbyes.
And yet Ethan’s influence remains. My new friends Carol and Amanda came to my home for tea last Christmas, and I often have the pleasure of walking with them — sometimes individually and sometimes together.
My husband and I have long since replaced our broken treadmill, but only he uses it as I prefer walking outdoors. I’ve also managed to lose 30 pounds. In a sense, I have Ethan to thank for getting me out of the house and onto the road.
So when I’m out walking and it’s a particularly quiet afternoon, I wistfully approach the two-story white house around the corner, wondering whether, one day, I might see a dark-haired little boy there again, one who pipes up and asks, “Hey, can I walk with you?”
— Angela McRae —