Getting up the Strength to Bring Bread to Neighbors After the Election

It took me two days to get up the strength to bring the bread over.

Thursday after the election I texted my neighbors on both sides of my property. They are both older, retired couples.

"I have another loaf of sourdough. Can I bring it over for you?"

I normally make two loaves and keep one, but this time I wanted to share both of them. I can always make more.

Gail to the South texted back, "Sure! We have missed you. Walt is in the yard."

I went through the gate that Walt and I had installed this Spring. We worked well together. Now we often let our dogs run free between the properties. I would use that gate the next Saturday to move some firewood he gave me, recruiting another friend from the neighborhood to help.

Walt has soft patient eyes. His answer to everything starts with a smile and a slight chortle. I think that if you wanted someone to deliver bad news, he would be a pretty good person to get it from.

I gave him the loaf of bread, asked him about his upcoming hip surgery. It has been delayed again. I felt frustrated about that but he seemed to have patience.

"Hey since you are here could you help me move this?" Walt turned to the object in the back of his van. It was a four foot long, wheel grinder with multiple wheels and a set of spray nozzles pointed down onto each of them.

It must be for turning rocks to jewelry. Walt and Gail are committed rock hounds. This summer I watched their dogs while they went to a week-long rock hounding camp.

It was definitely a two person job. I was glad I was there to help. Walt and I worked the device onto a table in his crowded shop.

I asked him to give my best to his wife and excused myself. I would have liked to see Gail but needed to keep moving.

If I had gone into their house, Fox News would likely be on. One of Walt's many hobbies is guns. They are active in their Latter Day Saints church. In two years we have never talked about politics.

My neighbor to the North texted back, "We are leaving soon. We have to take our brother in law to memory care."

"Oh that sounds hard. I will keep your family in my prayers. Can I drop the bread on your porch later?" I replied.

I can't imagine how difficult that must be. They have had a string of tragedies and health challenges this year. Among it all, I have been invited over for joyful chats and shared triumphant cucumbers, carrots, and berries from their massive garden. In conversation, neither of them paper over what they believe but take the time to say it carefully.

I put some homemade treats for their dog into a bag with the bread. Their dog often gets into extended barking matches with other dogs in our community. I screen the sound of it out most of the time. He's a good boy.

On my way into town, I pulled into their driveway. They fly an American flag, like I do. There was a Trump 2024 banner next to it on their fence.

Sourdough bread is best when fresh. I love to bring it still warm to someone, the oven heat apparent on their hands. I wasn’t ready when it was fresh, nor the day after the election. It is too bad I had to take that time and remember who we are. They got two-day-old bread.

They still loved it and sent texts thanking me. We hope we can get together soon. I know we will, and I am pretty sure that we will not talk about national politics just now. We never do. We all seem to know that will not come to any good.

Driving away, I thought about the journey of that sourdough starter.

It was given to me by an immigrant friend of mine with anarchist views. She is beautiful with a beguiling accent and a really special ability to string curses together. She publishes poetry books, works in marketing, and her husband at the time attended Black Bloc (the street-fighting hero-in-their-own-mind antifa) events as something like a team photographer.

I didn't agree with her politics but was always appreciative of her intelligence and wisdom. I miss her. She went through the pain of divorce and moved to DC. I think she just started a new job. I hope she is loved.

She made the sourdough in San Francisco. Gave it to me in Portland. It journeyed with me as I moved back to rural Oregon.

I have been feeling scared in the mornings. I am remembering as I write this that I promised to hold my neighbors in prayer. I will.