According to Glenn Hunter,
The doorbell rings and it’s Mark, holding up a plastic grocery bag with a GladWare container inside.
“How ’bout some p’sketti”? he asks with a smile, using his shorthand slang for “spaghetti.”
Like many in our East Dallas community, we’ve kept up a passing acquaintance over the years with a few of our neighbors, trading pleasantries on Halloween, say, and occasionally small presents at Christmas.
Among those neighbors is Mark, the grown son of the man who lives next door. Mark actually hangs his hat elsewhere but checks in every day with his father, a widower and former Air Force pilot who uses a walker now.
Mark’s also taken to checking in frequently with us. Which is appreciated, especially in these crazy times.
One time the doorbell will ring and there he is, offering a container of homemade chili and a box of Texas Toast. Another time, it might be a couple of rib-eye steaks. Or a chocolate sheet cake. Or maybe more spaghetti (to which the little lady likes to add a few vegetables).
On very early mornings when he swings by, he’ll pick up our newspaper out in the front yard — yes, we’re among the dwindling few who still take the paper — and prop it up on the doorstep.
With everyone so skittish these days, it’s become sort of reassuring to hear the doorbell ring. And then the familiar refrain of our Good Samaritan neighbor:
“How ’bout some p’sketti?”