Response: Me and Mr. Kravitz
Good fences make good neighbors, or so I’ve been told. But I think a couple of acres and some electric fences would make even better neighbors. Frankly, I’m tired of sitting in the lap of the guy next door. I don’t like rubbing elbows with every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the block. I value my privacy.
As a child, I loved reading the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Isolated by miles of prairie, the family looked forward to taking rare visits to town. Ma would spend her time in the county store, examining bundles of fabric she’d later make into dresses. Laura and Mary would buy a bag of penny candy and explore the dusty streets. Pa would visit with the other men in the shade of store awnings, smoking his pipe and catching up on news. It was a chance to break the monotony of frontier life.
With the busy pace of modern life, I like to think of my home as a retreat. I need a safe and quiet place to unwind. When I head outside to work in my yard, the last think I want is for someone to rush over and gossip about the man who mows his lawn every other day, or the woman with the barking dog, or the couple who leaves a broken down car in front of their house for months at a time, or the guy who plays his music so loudly it keeps everyone awake at night.
Perhaps if I had different neighbors, I wouldn’t be so cranky.
The bane of my neighborhood lives across the street. Mr. Kravitz, as I like to call him. I’ve come to believe he’s somehow installed a tripwire from our front door to his. He seems to know instantly when one of us comes out of the house. He’s out of the house like a shot, ambling across the street to waylay my husband and spend ½ an hour complaining about everyone on the block. So addicted is this man to whining, he once called the sanitation department to complain about a spillage of leachate in front of his driveway. The garbage guys came back out and sprayed it down with Mr. Kravitz's garden hose. Unbelievable.
Most of our other neighbors are great. Like St. Fiacre's old neighborhood, most are Republican and retired. They're friendly; they wave alot; they'll pull their cars over to one side and let you drive down the narrow street; they'll drag your trashcans out of the road on a windy day. They'll probably be the first to drag us out of bed and string us up in the nearest tree when the Christianists stage a violent coup, but until them, I dig 'em.
I’d like to think I’m a pleasant neighbor -– one who cleans up the mess when her dog takes a crap in someone’s yard, who encourages her children to be friendly and respectful, who takes pride in keeping her yard tidy and presentable. I’ll keep an eye on your house while you’re away. I'm tolerant. If his yard isn’t edged and neatly mown, so what? If her dog is yappy, it’s okay (as long as it doesn’t go on all night.) If their kids are a little surly, it doesn’t bother me, but don’t expect me to buy anything from their school fundraising catalog. I just think life’s too short to spend it complaining, and I sure as heck don’t want to be held captive listening to someone bitch and moan about tedious minutiae.
I guess I feel fulfilled by the community I’ve built up over the years: my friends, co-workers, and church. I’m lucky in that I’ve got a handful of friends I know I can always rely on to be there for me when I need them the most. They are the kind of people for whom I’d gladly get into a horse-drawn wagon and travel over miles of potholes, just so I could hang out with them for a couple of hours, looking at fabric, eating candy, and smoking my corn cob pipe.
Labels: community, complaining, neighbors
posted by Adjective Queen @ 2:53 PM,
1 Comments:
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At Thursday, September 14, 2006 4:41:00 PM,
St. Fiacre said...
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(shudder) Mr. Kravitz...how many times did I linger at the Victim Protection Order window in the courthouse with thoughts of Mr. Kravitz.
And you better get used to that covered wagon because there's not going to be any gas for your car.
