I walk out the door of my rental home and cross the street to grab the plastic bag with The Washington Post inside. It lays on the ground in front of my under-construction house. My husband, an architect, designed a new, energy-efficient home that we are having built. We were able to rent the house directly across the street during the demolition of the old house and creation of the new. Along with being here to watch the new construction, the rental allows us to keep our same commute to work and even our address. The mailman knows to deliver mail for both #5218 and #5219 to the rental house. However, I never took time to tell the Washington Post delivery person that I'm in a different house so each morning I walk across the street and grab the paper.
Barbara is my next door neighbor to the lot where the new house is going up. She's a widows in her 80s and last year began fighting cancer. Most Sundays I stop by to check on her. She likes reading mysteries so I pick her up some when visiting the public library. Mostly, I just sit and chat. She loves to talk and I figure during the week, she may not talk to that many others. Her own kids and grandkids visit but don't live too close by.
A while ago, I began to change my morning routine. First, I'd cross the street and get my paper. Then I walked the sidewalk, grabbed Barbara's, walked up her walk and tossed the paper to be right on her front porch. Then I crossed back and return to my rental.
I can't remove cancer from Barbara's life. But I can ensure that she can get her paper easily each morning by just opening her front door. No walking outside and down the to the sidewalk required. I can at least help her to have her normal morning routine of reading her newspaper.