The boy next door

When I was about 8 years old, the nice college boy next door, Jim Roberts by name, taught me to play chess. I remember him as a lanky, dark-haired fellow with smiling eyes and an easy friendliness, that last being a household trait. The Roberts clan set the “perfect neighbors” bar sky-high. I was in awe, and in love, with the whole family.

Mrs. Roberts wore stylish capris and a French twist and welcomed this scabby-kneed colt into her house and life. She let me watch her paint—artwork, mind you, not slapping a coat of semi-gloss on the wall. Let’s think about that for a minute. Do you do your best work with a very chatty kid at your elbow? This unconventional gal parked her easel on the sidewalk across the street to create a portrait of my family’s brick Cape Cod home. That domestic still life, having survived countless moves, hangs in my bedroom today.

Mr. Roberts, a reedy, pipe-in-the-teeth type, showed me how to sit perfectly still (somewhat of a miracle, then and now) on their back patio so the squirrel he’d tamed would tiptoe along my arm on its needle-nailed paws to fetch a nut from my hand.  Our backyard had a swing set and a brick barbecue; Mr. Roberts manicured a swath of his into a golfing green. He let me use Jim’s child-size putter while he (vainly) gave me pointers on the basics.

I spent an unconscionable amount of my childhood invading their home. Their walls were eclipsed by crammed bookcases and fine art; the classics wafted from their radio. No one in the family ever talked down to me and they seemed genuinely tickled to see me when I clambered over the chain link fence or sauntered in the front door with scarcely a knock. Who knows? Maybe I was the daughter they never had. I don’t remember much more about them, except their incredibly exotic names: Adrian (Mr.) and Verona (Mrs.). This much I knew–they liked me.

Today, no mother would dare allow her elementary-age daughter to spend time with a college boy. But Mom, probably thrilled to get me out of the house for a bit, knew and trusted Jim and his folks. When I read Jim’s obituary last week, I wasn’t surprised to learn he went on from the University of Maryland and other schools to become a well-respected, oft-honored mathematics professor–one with a host of accolades and several big-name awards. The obit testimonials speak of his sense of humor, lively mind, warm-hearted joy in his career, and infinite patience (a fellow golfer proclaimed that in his own 50+ years on the links, he’d NEVER seen anyone as patient as Jim teaching Mrs. Jim to play. I could have directed him to watch Jim instructing young me in chess…). Students left paeans of praise, friends left notes of admiration, family left words of love. I meekly added my chess story.

Jim’s still teaching me, patiently and with characteristic humility, with his legacy of a life well-lived. RIP Jim Roberts. I’ve never forgotten your kindness to your little next-door-neighbor. You were a friend of mine.