Janet Kamand: A True Friendly Neighbor

As a young girl, my neighbors were a part of my life: they bought my Girl Scout cookies; I'd run through their yard.

Some neighbors, they shoo you away. You never encounter them, except for a brief glance as they walk the dog or dash to the mailbox. They look over at you, with eyes that say: "That kickball better NOT hit my car."

Janet Kamand was not like that. She was a neighbor like no other.

Shooing away? No such thing. She'd laugh the loudest at your childlike antics. She might even help you, cheer you, as you kicked that ball. Her mailbox, first base.

Would her family play in the isolation of their own back yard, in the shadow of their house? No way! We'd often find each other in the front yards, both her young children and my young teen self, making a ruckus.

We'd start in the height of the July sun, and before we knew it, the streetlights were on and the stars were out over our Toms River street.

Janet's wide smile, knowing wink, straight dope conversation filled so many hours.

It was the mid 1990s, and I'd drag garbage cans to the street, and practice parallel parking between them in front of my family's home. It was in eager anticipation of passing the most dreaded part of the coming driver's exam and thus earning the subsequent freedom of your own driver's license. I can still remember Janet watching from her yard, laughing at me saying "That's it! That's it! Turn that wheel!" 

No matter how old Janet actually was, she was always young enough to hang out with. Was my rebellious teenage self becoming obsessed with late 70s British punk? She would unroll tales of New York dive bars during that era her rebellious teenage self frequented.

In that way, she would remind me, the youth of today, of the history that bears repeating -- that of fun and smiles that a life could be smattered with. Janet could also enlighten you with tales of hard times, putting things in stunning perspective.  And that's not an easy thing to tell a know-it-all teenager (me).

In a neighborhood over run with bored teenage boys, mischief night would earn its name each year, as the neighborhood would awake to find broken eggs in driveways and toilet paper dangling from trees. I remember keeping watch over the big trees in the front yard, hoping my presence outside would deter any potential toilet-paper weilding youth.

Janet spotted me and kept watch, enlightening me with her memories of growing up in East Orange with race riots unfolding nearby. 

My neighbor Janet -- she was short, she was young, with bright eyes. But as I heard her stories, she was an invincible lady painting vivid pictures of the past. 

Or she would just be there for a backyard barbecue. She attended my high school graduation (and my sister's) and the Galioto sister's high school track and field meets. And if she needed a babysitter she knew where to go. We were already playing for hours with her joyful children, anyway. 

Off to college I go and Janet and her family had moved away to another neighborhood in Toms River. And yet, we had a knack running into each other, crossing paths at supermarkets or restaurants, a big "How you doing? How's everybody?" Each earnestly wanting to know, what their old friend was up to. Big smiles, bright eyes, loud laughs.

Yesterday I found out my friend had suddenly died this weekend after battling cancer.

Janet was 48. That is much too young for a mother, daughter, wife and friend with so many years of big smiles, loud laughs and memories left to make.

Some neighbors, they shoo you away. Janet was not most other neighbors.

So many years after spending hours in that driveway, I still enjoy listening to the Buzzcocks. I still rejoice when I successfully parallel park. On mischief night, I feel sorry for the eggs whose delicious lives were smashed into asphalt. 

And, now I have my own stories to tell. Maybe one day, I'll look up and find my mailbox is someone else's first base.

I will loudly laugh and think of Janet, who will forever be my neighbor.