It’s been a little while but here’s a Hilltown Postcard.

It can be a game of chance when you live close enough to people that you can see their house. That certainly was the case when we moved to Worthington. We had good neighbors, bad neighbors and those who kept to themselves, except for a wave of the hand and a hello. And, of course, people came and went. Today I will write about a few good neighbors, specifically the ones we had in the Ringville section of town.

This was our second attempt at country living. I wrote about the first, in the middle of nowhere in central New Hampshire. We lasted less than a year even with helpful neighbors who took pity on the city folk with two kids renting a cabin for $35 a month that had no running water, electricity, or indoor plumbing, and only a woodstove for heat.

But when we moved from Boston to Worthington, Hank and I were in it for the long haul. By luck and help from newfound friends, we rented a crappy little house on a curve along Route 112 in Ringville. 

The first neighbor we met was Charlie Baker, who lived across the road from us in a farmhouse that had an open barn, a very large field, and a river behind it. The house was very close to the road, which was likely widened when it became a state highway. Our mailboxes were side-by-side, and both easy victims of a snowplow’s blade each winter.

Charlie was a friendly man who lived there with his young son, Chuck. His first piece of advice: We should keep the shades down or curtains closed when we undressed in the front bedroom because he could see us from across the road. Thanks, Charlie.

Over the years, Charlie let others use his land, in particular its grass for hay and to raise hogs for slaughtering. (I recall looking out the window to see a freshly killed hog hanging upside down from a tractor’s raised plow.) The land was also a bit of a playground for our kids. That was okay with Charlie.

It was a happy day when the Lippert family moved next door because our kids had playmates their ages. Alex was a doctor at the town’s health center. Regina also worked in the medical field. When the Lipperts were away, our kids would make sure the chickens were in their coop at night so they weren’t slaughtered by raccoons — a lesson our neighbors learned — and then let out in the morning. I consider the Lipperts, who like us moved away, friends still.

On the other side of our house were the Stroms, who also had children the same age as ours. Hank ended up driving Pat to the hospital when she went into labor with her daughter and Steve hadn’t made it home from work by then. When work was being done on their house because of a fire, we ran an electric cord from our house to theirs. In exchange, Steve plowed our driveway. 

I fondly remember visits to Marian Sanderson, the oldest person in our village. I don’t recall how it started, but the kids who weren’t school age and I went together. They didn’t mind since she always served them something sweet. I enjoyed listening to her stories about the town. She was also a big Red Sox fan, if I recall correctly. Unfortunately, one night she was injured when she fell and had to live with her daughter. I treasure the needlepoint piece she created that I used for a pillow I still have. 

Those were a few of our good neighbors in Worthington. Stay tuned for the bad ones.