Seed: Would You Be Mine? Could You Be Mine?
About this time last year I went through what, in retrospect, was probably a midlife crisis. I had started a walking program covering about 4 miles or so a day and that gave me a lot of time to think. As one prone to moderate depressive episodes brought on by too much thinking, this was a dangerous endeavor, but the health benefits were there, so on I trod. A few months before Katrina, it hit me that we were running out of oil and how the hell was I going to get to work from my home 20 miles away. It was taking me over an hour to cover four miles and even my math skills could inform me that I was looking at a five hour walk each way, or a couple hours on a bike. And that was assuming that I could survive the roving gangs of brigands and highwaymen which would likely accost poor me on my way to work. I realize how incredibly irrational that sounds, but I like I said, my mind gets away from me sometimes. And after all, I was practically raised as a survivalist, so to me the irrationality did not immediately sink in. It did get worse later after Katrina, but this post is about something else, so I won’t go there.
So, we had to move. There was no other way. It was actually quite easy to convince myself of this venture. I literally swallowed something bilious every morning when I pulled out of the driveway to make the 20 mile trip as a lone commuter. Our next-door-neighbor even worked in the building next to mine, but we couldn’t carpool because his workaholic hours were too frequently incompatible with mine. I hated the too-big house with its cavernous ceiling. People drove too fast on the main thoroughfare. All the cars in our ‘hood were identical and most of the houses. I felt like my soul was literally being carved out by some unseen reaver who was selling it on eBay under the moniker soulman666.
Oh, and the streets ran red with Republicanism. YHWH and I aren’t really political types and we never do signs in the yard, but in 2004, we let C.F. Kats put a Kerry sign in the yard so as not to discourage any burgeoning activism and do some ‘stand up for what you believe’ training. So, on Halloween night I hear some kids approach in the pitch black, but before they ring the bell I hear a strident twang belt out, “Git over here! They’re Dim-o-crats!” To be honest we had so many foreign trick-or-treaters hit our neighborhood, I’m not positive she was even one of ours. I figured, you know, at least she could read.
I normally avoid blue-red dichotomies. When pressed I say I’m purple with reddish hues. I know 98% of the people who read this (and 75% of the contributors to this page) are deep blue. I can’t help it though. First of all, my contrarian nature makes me move slightly opposite whoever I’m around. I also have a lot of residue from my upbringing and I can’t help that. I have two mnemonics for figuring out who’s who. #1 – Reds think they’re right; Blues think they’re better. #2 – Reds try to control your actions; Blues try to control your thoughts. Neither is palatable to me, but people that think they’re better than me and tell me what I can and can’t say really annoy me.
Even the people deeper into the subdivision were nice. After a couple of weeks of my nightly walks people in their yards would yell out, “Looking good!” “Keep it up!” “How much have you lost?” They’d see my library t-shirts and ask me if I could help them find some info. If it was raining or there was lightning I got offers of rides home. The block captain routinely asked me for my observations about the neighborhood. We had an Easter egg hunt in the spring; a hayride in the fall; summer picnics; Christmas cookie exchanges; caroling. It was a real community, dammit!
The funny thing was, it was an incredibly diverse amalgamation of neighbors. If you stood on our lawn, in your direct vision you would see three interracial couples, an African, a West Indian, a Mexican, a Puerto Rican, a New Yorker, two Nebraskans, a Filipino, a Californian, and a pride of Texans. At the end of the street was a Japanese family and around the corner a Russian family and further in a Vietnamese family. I and one neighbor and most of the kids were the only Okies. The one thing that bound everyone together was socio-economic status. Or specifically, the price of our houses.
I realized what I was giving up neighbor-wise by moving into the city. I knew I’d have to think more about crime and schools and all the attendant issues that come with urban living. Knowing that I can get along with just about anybody, I was nonplussed by the neighbor situation and I knew that YHWH would be happy moving into a blue zone (or at least a bluish-purple). And she is. There are a majority of Democratic Party signs here. The houses are all stately and different with established lawns, gardens and trees. The numbered streets have fewer than three digits and the named ones are not cutely linked to the name of the subdivision. Rainbow flags fly from a number of houses. And an SUV parked in the neighborhood is likely to be a repairman or a visitor.
So what do you think? Who makes better neighbors – Reds or Blues?
Labels: blues, midlife crisis, moving, neighbors, reds
posted by St. Fiacre @ 4:00 PM,
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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,
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