Long ago, after we sent a letter to our western neighbor saying that we planned to install our own water supply system and therefore remove the electric line that comes from our house and powers her barn along with the pump we share, the nice man from the electric company told me that our western neighbor would be happy to pay us twenty dollars per month–the minimum charge if she had her own hookup–for continued access to our electricity.

Up unto that point–forever, I suppose–she had just used it for free; I contacted her and arranged that she would start paying us. And she did pay us, for four months at a time, albeit almost always about a month late and sometimes with a check written in pencil, for well over a year.

Back in August, though, in a rush of wanting to build a spirit of goodwill with my neighbors, I called up the western neighbor and suggested that she cut that twenty dollars in half.

“Oh, whatever,” she said. “I just do whatever people tell me, anymore.”

“Well, if you want to lower it to ten dollars starting in September, that’s fine with us. You’re not using twenty dollars’ worth, I don’t think.”

“Well alright,” she said, and then she said something she’d never before said to me: “Thank you.”

(If that didn’t make me giddy enough, I immediately called the eastern land renter and offered that he make hay from our little field since I was going to have to pay someone to cut the grass, anyway. He said he wasn’t going to be bringing his equipment over anymore this fall, but–another new experience here–“thank you.”)

Well.

As September came and went and no check arrived from the western neighbor, I started to fret. As October, too, sneaked by, I considered our options. It wouldn’t do to call her and remind her that she hadn’t paid; simply because I would be asking her to do something, I was pretty sure that, as a matter of principle, she wouldn’t respond by sending a check. And I didn’t feel like spending our windows money on actually separating the power supply and water setups, so that wouldn’t work.

Then, like any good, divinely inspired institution should, our church came to the rescue–by deciding to host a Thanksgiving feast and invite friends and acquaintances.

Guess who received one of the invitations.

Guess who put that check in the mail lickety-split.

And guess who feels much better.