Posts
I live in a small town where Christmas has come and gone again, but our celebration will continue today with Boxing Day.
For the uninformed, Boxing Day is the English celebration that started when the lords of the manor gathered up all of their Christmas leftovers, “boxed them up”, and took them to the peasants on December 26th. The modern day incarnation has friends and family gathering together the day after Christmas to share leftovers, relax, play games and just extend the holiday.
My son, Ian’s, girlfriend, Katie, has an English mother, so Boxing Day is a tradition that takes place in their household. So for the second year, we are invited for Boxing Day at the Sabongi’s to share in the tradition as our families more firmly bond in what is sure to become a permanent union.
For years, my own extended family celebrated on the 26th because it was the only “safe” day for the massive Born clan to gather during the Christmas holidays. No one in our extended friends and family network did anything on the day after Christmas except burn wrapping paper and empty boxes, so my Gramma Born could count on dozens of Born relatives coming to her house to enjoy tasteless food and non-existent wine. If you were a granddaughter, you would have the pleasure of opening a gift of an identical size 40 full slip that matched the rest of your girl cousins whether they were age 10 or age 30. I don’t know what the boy cousins got, but I’m sure it was equally as memorable.
Being the pragmatic Germans we were, we called the 26th “Second Christmas Day”, and it was celebrated for as long as my grandparents lived, which was a pretty long time. Not nearly as much fun as the Sabongi celebration we will celebrate today, but something I remember fondly because it was so predictable…a tradition.
Despite a frantic world, I try very hard to maintain a few traditions from year to year so that my own children will have something to remember "fondly". Socks and underwear from Santa (who wants Santa getting credit for giving the good stuff?), a pass on Christmas Eve so the kids can celebrate with others who want to see them (other parents, potential in-laws, etc.), one new board game for the house so that there is something fresh to challenge our collective competitive nature.
Fred and I have our own tradition, just for the two of us. The kids’ Christmas Eve pass translates into a romantic dinner for two on the 24th. We cook a fabulous meal together, do some last minute wrapping, open our gifts to each other in private, go to church together and then, before going to bed, fill each other’s stockings in secret with all kinds of fun stuff we need and want – Golf Digest magazine and some cigars for Fred and Martha Stewart “Living” and some classic DVDs for me. At 53 and 60, Santa still fills our stockings.
Two days ago, as we sat eating our dessert by the fire, I looked out the picture window to see who was celebrating in the neighborhood. Lights were on in many homes, but the one that struck me was Mr. Anderson’s house across the street. Since Mr. Anderson died a few years ago, the once proud and lovely home had become sad and shabby. His only surviving relative, a nephew, tried to sell it or rent it out. But the revolving door of tenants made it hard to keep up with who was living there. Just as we’d get to know the “new neighbors”, they’d be gone, and another Uhaul truck would drive up with a new family. Realtors would bring potential buyers through, but no takers. Even at a ridiculously low price, the amount of work that would have needed to be done to make the home livable after numerous tenants and then standing empty for nearly 18 months brought the house to a low it had never seen when Mr. Anderson lived there.
It was like a domino effect was taking place at our end of the neighborhood, starting with the duplex on the right, and moving towards Mr. Anderson’s house, then Jeff’s house, then the Crack Dealer’s house and so on. But the Crack Dealer had died, Jeff fixed up his place because he got a girlfriend, and one day, another moving truck came and several SUVs and people moved a couple into Anderson’s house. For weeks the young couple and their families and friends worked on that house. One morning, we saw drapes on their living room picture window, and we knew that these folks would be staying a while.
So on Christmas Eve night, as we finished our dessert by the fire, we looked out the window at the house and the friends and family celebrating the holidays and being in a new home. We saw a dozen luminaries lining the stairway to their front door. Their beautiful glow said “Welcome and Merry Christmas” to everyone in the neighborhood.
I live in a small town.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Henry
I live in a small town where, like many towns, the nail salon industry is run by Asians, specifically Vietnamese.
I have been seeing Henry every 2 weeks for the last 2 years to have my nails done. He was foisted on me by a new owner, Kim, who gracefully steered me toward Henry with promises of no yellowing or visible lines. For the uninformed, this means that my fingernails would look less like Future Floor Finish and more natural. And she was right!
For 52 visits, Henry and I have barely spoken. An occasional “How are you?” and always a “thank you” when I leave. But no substantive conversation. I’d ask him a question and he’d smile and shrug. I figured he just wasn’t interested in talking to me. So I’d doze as he worked on my fingers and made my hands look beautiful.
Anyone who knows me well understands that I am a chatter. It’s in my DNA. I get to know all my service providers. I know Natalie's (my Russian house cleaner) entire history, her dreams and hopes. My hair stylist, Pam, and I could talk for hours if there wasn’t a line-up of impatient customers waiting to fill her chair. Jane, my colorist, knows all my secrets, and I know hers. I even struck up a conversation with the guy at Kinko’s this morning. Why not? I felt like I knew him – he did work a miracle on a print job, after all.
But Henry was a mystery. I didn’t know anything about him – age, marital status, interests, nothing. He didn’t talk to anyone – not his co-workers, not his other customers. A very quiet – young or old? – man.
But today was different.
Going into the salon, CNN was on the big screen and the election rhetoric was at full volume. I settled into the pedicure chair and Kim started to work on my toes. “I do your pedicure today,” she said. “Henry will do your nails when I’m done.”
She worked diligently on removing the red polish on my toenails, but focused on the TV to catch every word about the election. “Who you vote for, Kristi?” she asked. I told her, and she responded, “Vietnamese like McCain. I like McCain, my husband like McCain. Even Henry like McCain.”
We talked a little more about the candidates and what we thought, and soon my toes were done. Henry motioned me to the front of the salon and dusted off his station as I took my chair in front of him. “So, Henry,” I said, “I hear you like McCain.” He nodded and smiled. “What is it you like about him?” I asked.
Henry paused before he answered. “McCain a very good man. He help many Vietnamese in our country and here.”
That short exchange was more than anything we had had before, and I thought we were done when Henry fell silent after giving me his answer. But then he said, “It’s been very busy today.” So, in trying to keep the conversation going, I responded, “It has? Well that’s good! You’ve been busy?”
Henry nodded. “Yes. I got here at 1:00 after my class, and I busy ever since.”
“Class?” I asked. “What are you studying?”
“English!” he said. And then the floodgates opened. I learned during my hour-long appointment:
Henry’s going to take 2 semesters of English and then wants to continue his studies to become an accountant. He’ll go to Normandale Community College until he can transfer to the U of M.
He received a business management degree in Vietnam before coming to the U.S. 7 years ago. He isn’t able to use his degree here, and decided to get more education and go into accounting. “I’m good with numbers.” He thought that maybe half of his Vietnamese credits would transfer.
Henry grew up in South Vietnam, and his father fought in the South Vietnamese army. After the war ended, his father spent years in prison. Six of Henry’s uncles died in the war.
He is worried about America leaving Iraq too early. “That didn’t work very well for Vietnam. One day the U.S. there, and the next, gone. And since then, life very bad.”
Kim is Henry’s cousin, and asked him to move up here from Fort Myers, FL 2 years ago when his marriage began to crumble and she needed help in her new nail salon.
Today, his divorce is final. Today!
Henry thought that I was 42, 45 at the most. “You look very young!” He is 37 years old, and knows that everyone thinks he is much younger.
Henry isn’t a citizen, but will be someday. He likes that, in America, you get to make a choice about the government you have. He wants to vote.
Before I left, I asked Henry why he came to America. “For the freedom,” he answered. “I wanted to be free.”
I live in a small town.
I have been seeing Henry every 2 weeks for the last 2 years to have my nails done. He was foisted on me by a new owner, Kim, who gracefully steered me toward Henry with promises of no yellowing or visible lines. For the uninformed, this means that my fingernails would look less like Future Floor Finish and more natural. And she was right!
For 52 visits, Henry and I have barely spoken. An occasional “How are you?” and always a “thank you” when I leave. But no substantive conversation. I’d ask him a question and he’d smile and shrug. I figured he just wasn’t interested in talking to me. So I’d doze as he worked on my fingers and made my hands look beautiful.
Anyone who knows me well understands that I am a chatter. It’s in my DNA. I get to know all my service providers. I know Natalie's (my Russian house cleaner) entire history, her dreams and hopes. My hair stylist, Pam, and I could talk for hours if there wasn’t a line-up of impatient customers waiting to fill her chair. Jane, my colorist, knows all my secrets, and I know hers. I even struck up a conversation with the guy at Kinko’s this morning. Why not? I felt like I knew him – he did work a miracle on a print job, after all.
But Henry was a mystery. I didn’t know anything about him – age, marital status, interests, nothing. He didn’t talk to anyone – not his co-workers, not his other customers. A very quiet – young or old? – man.
But today was different.
Going into the salon, CNN was on the big screen and the election rhetoric was at full volume. I settled into the pedicure chair and Kim started to work on my toes. “I do your pedicure today,” she said. “Henry will do your nails when I’m done.”
She worked diligently on removing the red polish on my toenails, but focused on the TV to catch every word about the election. “Who you vote for, Kristi?” she asked. I told her, and she responded, “Vietnamese like McCain. I like McCain, my husband like McCain. Even Henry like McCain.”
We talked a little more about the candidates and what we thought, and soon my toes were done. Henry motioned me to the front of the salon and dusted off his station as I took my chair in front of him. “So, Henry,” I said, “I hear you like McCain.” He nodded and smiled. “What is it you like about him?” I asked.
Henry paused before he answered. “McCain a very good man. He help many Vietnamese in our country and here.”
That short exchange was more than anything we had had before, and I thought we were done when Henry fell silent after giving me his answer. But then he said, “It’s been very busy today.” So, in trying to keep the conversation going, I responded, “It has? Well that’s good! You’ve been busy?”
Henry nodded. “Yes. I got here at 1:00 after my class, and I busy ever since.”
“Class?” I asked. “What are you studying?”
“English!” he said. And then the floodgates opened. I learned during my hour-long appointment:
Henry’s going to take 2 semesters of English and then wants to continue his studies to become an accountant. He’ll go to Normandale Community College until he can transfer to the U of M.
He received a business management degree in Vietnam before coming to the U.S. 7 years ago. He isn’t able to use his degree here, and decided to get more education and go into accounting. “I’m good with numbers.” He thought that maybe half of his Vietnamese credits would transfer.
Henry grew up in South Vietnam, and his father fought in the South Vietnamese army. After the war ended, his father spent years in prison. Six of Henry’s uncles died in the war.
He is worried about America leaving Iraq too early. “That didn’t work very well for Vietnam. One day the U.S. there, and the next, gone. And since then, life very bad.”
Kim is Henry’s cousin, and asked him to move up here from Fort Myers, FL 2 years ago when his marriage began to crumble and she needed help in her new nail salon.
Today, his divorce is final. Today!
Henry thought that I was 42, 45 at the most. “You look very young!” He is 37 years old, and knows that everyone thinks he is much younger.
Henry isn’t a citizen, but will be someday. He likes that, in America, you get to make a choice about the government you have. He wants to vote.
Before I left, I asked Henry why he came to America. “For the freedom,” he answered. “I wanted to be free.”
I live in a small town.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Coach
I live in a small town where legends are rare. We went to church this morning and heard that one of the legends in my husband’s life died early this morning.
Stav Canakas was Fred’s football coach in high school. Fred grew up in the small town next to the one in which we currently live. The town that made every town around it feel like an underdog. The town where all the homes were big, beautiful and well appointed, all the teeth were straight and white, all the husbands well employed and all the wives gorgeous and thin. 40+ years have passed since my husband’s high school football team won the state championship for the umpteenth time, and not much has changed.
Fred’s alma mater has always had a habit of creating dynasties in athletics. Their teams have always been rated in the state and contenders for championships. Even their marching band is remarkable. But playing football in the 1960s was a unique experience, a character builder and yes, something that defined young lives. To a man, playing for Stav Canakas changed forever the way they looked at life, approached challenges and dealt with failure.
When I first met Fred and he’d share with me his high school football stories, he’d talk about winning games, but more often he’d talk about the killer practices and August two-a-days, the exhaustive drills, the running of laps until you’d vomit. Stav’s berating of players was historic, but, as Fred says, he’d only berate those whom he thought could take it. Getting yelled at by Stav was a badge of honor. If he ignored you, it meant you’d probably be riding the bench.
I used to think that Fred exaggerated Stav’s treatment of his players, that even in 1965, that kind of “win at any cost” abuse would have been reported by someone to higher authorities. But then I met several of Fred’s team mates, guys who went on to great success in their adult lives and gave Stav much of the credit. They all agreed that his coaching bordered on torture, but they loved him for it and wouldn’t have had it any other way. Their reminiscing is always loving and thoughtful, and mixed with laughter and admiration.
After years of hearing Canakas stories, Fred and I joined our church in that dynasty-building town next door to our small town. One of the first weeks we attended, Fred nudged me and pointed as a tired, bent over, white haired man in a striped Munsingwear shirt and rumpled Dockers shuffled down the aisle to take his seat in the pews. “Canakas!” he whispered excitedly in my ear. I looked at the frail old man, and in amazement, whispered back, “That’s the man who tortured you guys and called it coaching?” Fred chuckled quietly and replied, “Yep, that’s him.”
When church let out, Fred waited in back until Stav finished shaking hands with the pastor at the exit. He tapped him on the shoulder and when Stav turned around, Fred said warmly, “How are you doing, Coach?” Canakas looked up into Fred’s face and after a moment of confusion, smiled broadly, straightened up as tall as he could, looked him in the eye and slapped him on the shoulder. “Shepherd! It’s you!!” They talked for a while, and upon leaving, Stav pulled Fred toward him at the end of the hand shake and said softly into his ear, “It’s really good to see you, Freddy.”
We’d see Stav every now and then at church, and Fred always made a point of going up to him to say “Hi, Coach.” As his health deteriorated in the last few months, we’d hear about and be asked to pray for him, but I think Fred thought Canakas would live forever. Hearing that Stav died today hit him hard. He didn’t see the weak old man I saw in the pews. He saw the same vibrant, strong, tough, demanding man that brought out the best in a bunch of young boys forty years ago.
I live in a small town.
Stav Canakas was Fred’s football coach in high school. Fred grew up in the small town next to the one in which we currently live. The town that made every town around it feel like an underdog. The town where all the homes were big, beautiful and well appointed, all the teeth were straight and white, all the husbands well employed and all the wives gorgeous and thin. 40+ years have passed since my husband’s high school football team won the state championship for the umpteenth time, and not much has changed.
Fred’s alma mater has always had a habit of creating dynasties in athletics. Their teams have always been rated in the state and contenders for championships. Even their marching band is remarkable. But playing football in the 1960s was a unique experience, a character builder and yes, something that defined young lives. To a man, playing for Stav Canakas changed forever the way they looked at life, approached challenges and dealt with failure.
When I first met Fred and he’d share with me his high school football stories, he’d talk about winning games, but more often he’d talk about the killer practices and August two-a-days, the exhaustive drills, the running of laps until you’d vomit. Stav’s berating of players was historic, but, as Fred says, he’d only berate those whom he thought could take it. Getting yelled at by Stav was a badge of honor. If he ignored you, it meant you’d probably be riding the bench.
I used to think that Fred exaggerated Stav’s treatment of his players, that even in 1965, that kind of “win at any cost” abuse would have been reported by someone to higher authorities. But then I met several of Fred’s team mates, guys who went on to great success in their adult lives and gave Stav much of the credit. They all agreed that his coaching bordered on torture, but they loved him for it and wouldn’t have had it any other way. Their reminiscing is always loving and thoughtful, and mixed with laughter and admiration.
After years of hearing Canakas stories, Fred and I joined our church in that dynasty-building town next door to our small town. One of the first weeks we attended, Fred nudged me and pointed as a tired, bent over, white haired man in a striped Munsingwear shirt and rumpled Dockers shuffled down the aisle to take his seat in the pews. “Canakas!” he whispered excitedly in my ear. I looked at the frail old man, and in amazement, whispered back, “That’s the man who tortured you guys and called it coaching?” Fred chuckled quietly and replied, “Yep, that’s him.”
When church let out, Fred waited in back until Stav finished shaking hands with the pastor at the exit. He tapped him on the shoulder and when Stav turned around, Fred said warmly, “How are you doing, Coach?” Canakas looked up into Fred’s face and after a moment of confusion, smiled broadly, straightened up as tall as he could, looked him in the eye and slapped him on the shoulder. “Shepherd! It’s you!!” They talked for a while, and upon leaving, Stav pulled Fred toward him at the end of the hand shake and said softly into his ear, “It’s really good to see you, Freddy.”
We’d see Stav every now and then at church, and Fred always made a point of going up to him to say “Hi, Coach.” As his health deteriorated in the last few months, we’d hear about and be asked to pray for him, but I think Fred thought Canakas would live forever. Hearing that Stav died today hit him hard. He didn’t see the weak old man I saw in the pews. He saw the same vibrant, strong, tough, demanding man that brought out the best in a bunch of young boys forty years ago.
I live in a small town.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
October 25th
I live in a small town that is consumed with preparing for winter. All of my neighbors are either raking or blowing, mowing for the last time, washing windows, taking out window air conditioners, you name it. And we’re right out there with them.
Every fall I have the same feelings of focused diligence mixed with anguished regret. Every pot I dump, I think of the weeds that never got pulled. Every flower box I take from the front deck, I notice another hole in the planking and wonder when, oh when we’ll be able to replace the whole thing.
I marvel at the few, bright Sonic Red New Guinea impatiens that refuse to die, the Lemon Zest petunias that come back from the dead only to have me bury them alive in the compost heap over the fence. I think about their brilliance and their beauty in the midst of the death and decay that is just around the corner along with 30 below wind chill and 20 foot snow drifts.
I fight the impulse to get down into the dirt and pull those damn dandelions that will not die, not now, not ever. I could expend the energy to pull them, but why? They will be the first ones back in the garden next spring, whether I pull them now or not, happy and strong and ready to propagate. I did pull up the thorny leaves of a nasty thistle this morning, a plant that had been taunting me for weeks. I thought as I yanked at the leaves, “Now is the time, you bastard…DIE!”, but in my haste and fury, I left the root in the ground because I just don’t have the energy today to totally fight a battle I’ll never win.
Today is October 25th, late in the season for Minnesotans to be raking and putting up storm windows. Most years, we have all that winter prep done weeks before now. But this year, it’s just been a little too warm and mild, and the acorns never did drop. So I’m thinking, based on Farmer’s Almanac supposition, maybe winter won’t be so early or so bad. So far, our luck is holding.
Throughout the day, working in my garden, preparing it for the cold, I’m thinking about my dad. October 25th is my parents’ wedding anniversary. It is also the day, 4 years ago, that my dad slipped and fell and went into the hospital for the last time only to come home to die 3 weeks later. October 25, 2004 was the beginning of the end of my dad’s life. And I miss him today especially.
For the past 4 years, I’ve thought of my dad almost daily, but my memories of Dad during the fall are particularly vivid and poignant. Dad was one of the most friendly, outgoing guys you’d ever meet. He made friends easily and everywhere he went. He was the master of chit chat. Rarely deep or provocative, but always entertaining and memorable, Dad knew a little about a lot and had a joke for every occasion. Despite those raunchy jokes and a fondness for profanity, he was a man of deep faith. He prayed, he taught us, his five children, to pray, and more than anything, he taught us to believe.
Dad’s life was not easy. He was an under-educated over-achiever. He accomplished incredible success with little education or support from his parents. He was self-effacing and confident enough to admit what he didn’t know, and eager to learn, even in his latest years. He faced tough economic times and failed at times in business. But every day, he woke up and told himself, “Today will be a better day.” And most often it was.
People are talking a lot about hope these days. I would love for them to have known my dad. He was the epitome of hope. I don’t think the words “I give up” ever passed his lips. And he always found something good to focus on even when things were pretty rotten. Never mushy or a Pollyanna, he just always knew things would work out.
Perhaps it was because Dad’s birth and death are both in the fall that keep him top of my mind every autumn. Or it could be because the best conversation I ever had with my dad was during that last stay in the hospital. It was just him and me. The elections were right around the corner. The debates were hot and heavy. And Dad and I had a great time discussing it all.
Or it could be because the beautiful, colorful fall leaves remind me of that September around his last birthday. Fred and I had stopped for coffee and a visit, and Dad greeted us from his chair with a contented look on his face. Other visits, he secretly shared with my husband how he just didn’t understand why God was letting him wake up every morning. But that day, he seemed lost in serenity as he gazed out the glass doors to their patio and only half listened to our conversation.
When my mom and I got up to refill the coffee cups, Dad turned to Fred and said, “I just feel so awful, and I’m ready to go. I ask myself every day why doesn’t God just take me.” And then, he looked out the glass doors again at the deep orange leaves on the tree that grew right next to the patio. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than that tree, Fred?” he asked wistfully. “I think God wants me alive today just so that I can see that tree.”
I live in a small town.
Every fall I have the same feelings of focused diligence mixed with anguished regret. Every pot I dump, I think of the weeds that never got pulled. Every flower box I take from the front deck, I notice another hole in the planking and wonder when, oh when we’ll be able to replace the whole thing.
I marvel at the few, bright Sonic Red New Guinea impatiens that refuse to die, the Lemon Zest petunias that come back from the dead only to have me bury them alive in the compost heap over the fence. I think about their brilliance and their beauty in the midst of the death and decay that is just around the corner along with 30 below wind chill and 20 foot snow drifts.
I fight the impulse to get down into the dirt and pull those damn dandelions that will not die, not now, not ever. I could expend the energy to pull them, but why? They will be the first ones back in the garden next spring, whether I pull them now or not, happy and strong and ready to propagate. I did pull up the thorny leaves of a nasty thistle this morning, a plant that had been taunting me for weeks. I thought as I yanked at the leaves, “Now is the time, you bastard…DIE!”, but in my haste and fury, I left the root in the ground because I just don’t have the energy today to totally fight a battle I’ll never win.
Today is October 25th, late in the season for Minnesotans to be raking and putting up storm windows. Most years, we have all that winter prep done weeks before now. But this year, it’s just been a little too warm and mild, and the acorns never did drop. So I’m thinking, based on Farmer’s Almanac supposition, maybe winter won’t be so early or so bad. So far, our luck is holding.
Throughout the day, working in my garden, preparing it for the cold, I’m thinking about my dad. October 25th is my parents’ wedding anniversary. It is also the day, 4 years ago, that my dad slipped and fell and went into the hospital for the last time only to come home to die 3 weeks later. October 25, 2004 was the beginning of the end of my dad’s life. And I miss him today especially.
For the past 4 years, I’ve thought of my dad almost daily, but my memories of Dad during the fall are particularly vivid and poignant. Dad was one of the most friendly, outgoing guys you’d ever meet. He made friends easily and everywhere he went. He was the master of chit chat. Rarely deep or provocative, but always entertaining and memorable, Dad knew a little about a lot and had a joke for every occasion. Despite those raunchy jokes and a fondness for profanity, he was a man of deep faith. He prayed, he taught us, his five children, to pray, and more than anything, he taught us to believe.
Dad’s life was not easy. He was an under-educated over-achiever. He accomplished incredible success with little education or support from his parents. He was self-effacing and confident enough to admit what he didn’t know, and eager to learn, even in his latest years. He faced tough economic times and failed at times in business. But every day, he woke up and told himself, “Today will be a better day.” And most often it was.
People are talking a lot about hope these days. I would love for them to have known my dad. He was the epitome of hope. I don’t think the words “I give up” ever passed his lips. And he always found something good to focus on even when things were pretty rotten. Never mushy or a Pollyanna, he just always knew things would work out.
Perhaps it was because Dad’s birth and death are both in the fall that keep him top of my mind every autumn. Or it could be because the best conversation I ever had with my dad was during that last stay in the hospital. It was just him and me. The elections were right around the corner. The debates were hot and heavy. And Dad and I had a great time discussing it all.
Or it could be because the beautiful, colorful fall leaves remind me of that September around his last birthday. Fred and I had stopped for coffee and a visit, and Dad greeted us from his chair with a contented look on his face. Other visits, he secretly shared with my husband how he just didn’t understand why God was letting him wake up every morning. But that day, he seemed lost in serenity as he gazed out the glass doors to their patio and only half listened to our conversation.
When my mom and I got up to refill the coffee cups, Dad turned to Fred and said, “I just feel so awful, and I’m ready to go. I ask myself every day why doesn’t God just take me.” And then, he looked out the glass doors again at the deep orange leaves on the tree that grew right next to the patio. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than that tree, Fred?” he asked wistfully. “I think God wants me alive today just so that I can see that tree.”
I live in a small town.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Kenny
I live in a small town with my dear husband, and our cat, Kenny, who came to live with us about a year ago. I watched the Humane Society Kitten Watch page for months before finding the perfect feline, and dragged Fred down to pick him out one day when our desire to once again love and take care of a precious little thing overwhelmed us.
Fred didn’t really want to get another cat after losing perhaps his favorite pet ever. Jack was a gorgeous, Tiffany breed cat whose lustrous mink/black coat just begged to be petted. He was a great and aggressive hunter who loved mouse heads but always left the haunches in the grass, a ruthless killer of chipmunks and rabbits and anything else that got in his path. He was the kind of cat that couldn’t be contained indoors, and during the winter when the below zero temps kept him inside, he’d lay on the back of the sofa, all four legs hanging down, two on each side of the back, looking out the picture window longingly. I swear I could hear him sighing.
Along with being an accomplished killer, he was perhaps the most affectionate cat God ever created. When Fred built the deck five summers ago, Jack would follow him around like a little boy wanting to help. When I came home from the nursing home four years ago after a visit with my dad, who would die a few short weeks later, I laid down, fetal position, on our bed and cried my eyes out. Jack jumped up on the bed with me, nestled his head into my shoulder and put his front paw on my cheek. He’d come into our bedroom every morning, give us each his version of a kiss, and would then move to the kitchen and his food bowl to chow down before going outside to hunt and to play. The few times he was indoors, he was always with one of us either snuggled up on one of our laps or on the seat next to one of us as we sat on the sofa.
When Jack didn’t come home several years ago after one, two, three, four whole days of being gone, we worried and wondered where he could be. We called the Humane Society and blanketed the neighborhood with flyers, but no one knew where he was. During the first and second days of his absence, we didn't worry too much. In the past, he would disappear every now and then for a couple of days at a time, and I would accuse him of being a bigamist cat with another family somewhere. But an absence of so many days could only mean one thing – he was either hurt or had been picked up by someone somewhere and given a new home. Had his lifeless body been found somewhere or if he had been taken to the Humane Society as a stray, the microchip in his neck would have alerted the authorities that he was ours and we wanted him back. But no call came, and Jack never reappeared at our back door, and when days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months, and months turned to years, we knew Jack was never coming home.
Fred couldn’t even talk about Jack without tearing up, and I learned to stop talking about how much I missed our cat. And after some time had passed and I’d say that I’d seen a cute kitten online and could we go take a look, for over 2 years, Fred would say, “I’m just not ready.” And then one day last fall, he said, “Okay, I'm ready. Let’s go take a look.”
I knew that I wanted a kitten with totally different coloring, one totally different from Jack – white or orange or a calico. When we saw Kenny with his pure white fur and spots of orange, we knew he was perfect. And why did we call him Kenny? He was a blond with blue eyes who'd race around like crazy and then drop into a nap, just like my dad, Ken. My son Ian suggested that if Kenny liked Scotch and polka music and cheated at gin, the kitten might just be Grampa reincarnated.
But unlike my dear departed, fun-loving, affectionate father, Kenny didn’t care for people all that much. Certainly a different cat from what we had become accustomed. He wasn't affectionate, he didn’t like to snuggle and he didn’t kiss us good morning. In fact, during his first year with us, he would have been perfectly happy to go without interacting with us at all. As long as there was food in the dish and a soft pillow on a chair, he was good to go. No human contact required.
In the spring, when he was a bit older and made noises about leaving the safety of the house, we debated whether to let him explore the outside world. Even with a cat who really acted like a cat, we had come to love the little guy and didn’t want anything to happen to him. But one day, he got out and fell in love with our garden, and there was no turning back. Unlike his predecessor, he was as lazy a hunter as they come. I believe I heard the chipmunks making fun of him one day, and the rabbit population took over and destroyed parts of the garden as he’d lay around the deck just watching the action while getting a tan.
The strange thing is, the more time he spent outside, the more social a being he became. Now, he seeks us out and rubs up against us and wants to sleep with us sometimes. It’s almost like he needs a fix of human to get him through the day now that he’s become a part of the wild.
Late last week, Kenny came home beaten up and limping. A trip to the vet told us he’d bruised one leg badly and broken his hip. Once the shock of his injuries was past and a plan for healing was drawn up, it occured to me that after what I’m sure was a near fight to the death with some savage beast, he nearly dragged himself back home...to us. Fred says it’s because he knows where his food bowl is. I say it’s because he knows where his people are.
I live in a small town.
Fred didn’t really want to get another cat after losing perhaps his favorite pet ever. Jack was a gorgeous, Tiffany breed cat whose lustrous mink/black coat just begged to be petted. He was a great and aggressive hunter who loved mouse heads but always left the haunches in the grass, a ruthless killer of chipmunks and rabbits and anything else that got in his path. He was the kind of cat that couldn’t be contained indoors, and during the winter when the below zero temps kept him inside, he’d lay on the back of the sofa, all four legs hanging down, two on each side of the back, looking out the picture window longingly. I swear I could hear him sighing.
Along with being an accomplished killer, he was perhaps the most affectionate cat God ever created. When Fred built the deck five summers ago, Jack would follow him around like a little boy wanting to help. When I came home from the nursing home four years ago after a visit with my dad, who would die a few short weeks later, I laid down, fetal position, on our bed and cried my eyes out. Jack jumped up on the bed with me, nestled his head into my shoulder and put his front paw on my cheek. He’d come into our bedroom every morning, give us each his version of a kiss, and would then move to the kitchen and his food bowl to chow down before going outside to hunt and to play. The few times he was indoors, he was always with one of us either snuggled up on one of our laps or on the seat next to one of us as we sat on the sofa.
When Jack didn’t come home several years ago after one, two, three, four whole days of being gone, we worried and wondered where he could be. We called the Humane Society and blanketed the neighborhood with flyers, but no one knew where he was. During the first and second days of his absence, we didn't worry too much. In the past, he would disappear every now and then for a couple of days at a time, and I would accuse him of being a bigamist cat with another family somewhere. But an absence of so many days could only mean one thing – he was either hurt or had been picked up by someone somewhere and given a new home. Had his lifeless body been found somewhere or if he had been taken to the Humane Society as a stray, the microchip in his neck would have alerted the authorities that he was ours and we wanted him back. But no call came, and Jack never reappeared at our back door, and when days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months, and months turned to years, we knew Jack was never coming home.
Fred couldn’t even talk about Jack without tearing up, and I learned to stop talking about how much I missed our cat. And after some time had passed and I’d say that I’d seen a cute kitten online and could we go take a look, for over 2 years, Fred would say, “I’m just not ready.” And then one day last fall, he said, “Okay, I'm ready. Let’s go take a look.”
I knew that I wanted a kitten with totally different coloring, one totally different from Jack – white or orange or a calico. When we saw Kenny with his pure white fur and spots of orange, we knew he was perfect. And why did we call him Kenny? He was a blond with blue eyes who'd race around like crazy and then drop into a nap, just like my dad, Ken. My son Ian suggested that if Kenny liked Scotch and polka music and cheated at gin, the kitten might just be Grampa reincarnated.
But unlike my dear departed, fun-loving, affectionate father, Kenny didn’t care for people all that much. Certainly a different cat from what we had become accustomed. He wasn't affectionate, he didn’t like to snuggle and he didn’t kiss us good morning. In fact, during his first year with us, he would have been perfectly happy to go without interacting with us at all. As long as there was food in the dish and a soft pillow on a chair, he was good to go. No human contact required.
In the spring, when he was a bit older and made noises about leaving the safety of the house, we debated whether to let him explore the outside world. Even with a cat who really acted like a cat, we had come to love the little guy and didn’t want anything to happen to him. But one day, he got out and fell in love with our garden, and there was no turning back. Unlike his predecessor, he was as lazy a hunter as they come. I believe I heard the chipmunks making fun of him one day, and the rabbit population took over and destroyed parts of the garden as he’d lay around the deck just watching the action while getting a tan.
The strange thing is, the more time he spent outside, the more social a being he became. Now, he seeks us out and rubs up against us and wants to sleep with us sometimes. It’s almost like he needs a fix of human to get him through the day now that he’s become a part of the wild.
Late last week, Kenny came home beaten up and limping. A trip to the vet told us he’d bruised one leg badly and broken his hip. Once the shock of his injuries was past and a plan for healing was drawn up, it occured to me that after what I’m sure was a near fight to the death with some savage beast, he nearly dragged himself back home...to us. Fred says it’s because he knows where his food bowl is. I say it’s because he knows where his people are.
I live in a small town.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Good Fences, Good Neighbors
I live in a small town where the old adage is often true – good fences make good neighbors. Unless it happens to be my neighbor and her fence.
The fence along the one side of our backyard had been leaning and threatening to fall down for as long as I’d lived in the house. Eight feet tall when it was first built, the cedar planks did their best to provide a division between our two yards, but lost height each summer when the grapevines would pull the fence closer to the ground. Now, we could almost see into her backyard and into her back windows if we stood on the highest level of the yard. We didn’t mind this when our next door neighbors were cute, young Ann and John and their adorable baby, Anders. But when they moved out and not so cute with no baby Leslie moved in, the heaving fence became a hard to tolerate eyesore as well as the accompanying view.
Leslie is a neighbor who is difficult to like. It isn’t that she does anything overt or deliberate to make you angry with her. She’s just the type of person who only talks to you when she needs something, or acts pathetically single and female just before a 20-inch snow storm. Once the tool is loaned or the driveway is plowed, she can barely exert enough effort to offer up a “hello”.
And then there is her awful boyfriend who insists on parking his car in front of our house instead of in their driveway. A nightly irritant for Fred who likes to feel free to water the front yard without worrying about water spots on the neighbor's Toyota.
Two years ago last spring, Leslie came to our front door to “talk about the fence”. She told us that this was the summer she was going to replace it and, if Fred wouldn’t mind, she was wondering if he could prop up the worst panels from our side so that she could bring over a variety of suppliers to show them what she had in mind. She promised the fence would be torn down and replaced within six weeks, but it would be so helpful if he could prop it for her. And did she mention she was having an engagement party for her and her boyfriend, and she’d really appreciate Fred’s help in making her yard look as presentable as possible. Fred reluctantly agreed but said, “Six weeks you say?” She replied quickly, “Absolutely! Not a day longer.”
So the fence was propped, and the engagement party was held, and summer, fall and winter all came and went. And Fred fumed.
The next spring, Leslie came to our door again, and told us that the fence would be torn down the next day, and if we had any plants that were particularly fragile, we may want to move them. And she also said that she was bringing in a surveyor the next week to make sure that the new fence was placed exactly on the official line between our two properties. “I just have a feeling my yard is a little bit bigger, and I want to make sure I get what is mine,” she said, smiling smugly.
Without thinking, I said, “Oh, okay, we’ll wait to hear from you.” And Fred, who heard the whole exchange from the next room, fumed.
The next day, the fence was torn down in a matter of minutes, which made us realize exactly how ready that fence was to fall. And when the surveyor came in the following week, he took copious measurements and notes and prepared what I presumed was a detailed report. And another week went by, and then another, and finally, on a Saturday when we were both out working in our yards, I asked Leslie, “So how did the surveying come out?” She fidgeted with her rake and paused a full minute before answering. “Well, it turns out that the fence was a put up wrong all those years ago. My fence was three feet into your yard.” I looked at her, expecting her to say she was kidding, but she didn’t. I waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t, I said, “So what does that mean?”
“It means,” she said angrily, “that you gain three feet of yard, and I lose it!” She jabbed her rake at her garden and went on. “I hadn’t planned on this, and am not really too motivated to rebuild a fence around a tiny yard that was horrible to start with. I just don’t know what I’m going to do unless…”
“Unless what?” I asked.
“Unless you let me build the fence right where it was. It will be just like it was before, except new,” she replied brightly.
“Hmmm…I don’t think I can do that, Leslie. It might compromise the resale of our house,” I answered her calmly.
“Well, I just don’t what I’m going to do then. We may just have to go without a fence,” she said, her voice quivering.
“Whatever,” I replied. “Just keep us posted.” And we spent the next two weeks doing what we do in our back yard with Leslie and her boyfriend, now fiancé, watching our every move.
And the fence went up, about three weeks later, exactly three feet over into her yard from where it had spent the previous 25 years.
I live in a small town.
The fence along the one side of our backyard had been leaning and threatening to fall down for as long as I’d lived in the house. Eight feet tall when it was first built, the cedar planks did their best to provide a division between our two yards, but lost height each summer when the grapevines would pull the fence closer to the ground. Now, we could almost see into her backyard and into her back windows if we stood on the highest level of the yard. We didn’t mind this when our next door neighbors were cute, young Ann and John and their adorable baby, Anders. But when they moved out and not so cute with no baby Leslie moved in, the heaving fence became a hard to tolerate eyesore as well as the accompanying view.
Leslie is a neighbor who is difficult to like. It isn’t that she does anything overt or deliberate to make you angry with her. She’s just the type of person who only talks to you when she needs something, or acts pathetically single and female just before a 20-inch snow storm. Once the tool is loaned or the driveway is plowed, she can barely exert enough effort to offer up a “hello”.
And then there is her awful boyfriend who insists on parking his car in front of our house instead of in their driveway. A nightly irritant for Fred who likes to feel free to water the front yard without worrying about water spots on the neighbor's Toyota.
Two years ago last spring, Leslie came to our front door to “talk about the fence”. She told us that this was the summer she was going to replace it and, if Fred wouldn’t mind, she was wondering if he could prop up the worst panels from our side so that she could bring over a variety of suppliers to show them what she had in mind. She promised the fence would be torn down and replaced within six weeks, but it would be so helpful if he could prop it for her. And did she mention she was having an engagement party for her and her boyfriend, and she’d really appreciate Fred’s help in making her yard look as presentable as possible. Fred reluctantly agreed but said, “Six weeks you say?” She replied quickly, “Absolutely! Not a day longer.”
So the fence was propped, and the engagement party was held, and summer, fall and winter all came and went. And Fred fumed.
The next spring, Leslie came to our door again, and told us that the fence would be torn down the next day, and if we had any plants that were particularly fragile, we may want to move them. And she also said that she was bringing in a surveyor the next week to make sure that the new fence was placed exactly on the official line between our two properties. “I just have a feeling my yard is a little bit bigger, and I want to make sure I get what is mine,” she said, smiling smugly.
Without thinking, I said, “Oh, okay, we’ll wait to hear from you.” And Fred, who heard the whole exchange from the next room, fumed.
The next day, the fence was torn down in a matter of minutes, which made us realize exactly how ready that fence was to fall. And when the surveyor came in the following week, he took copious measurements and notes and prepared what I presumed was a detailed report. And another week went by, and then another, and finally, on a Saturday when we were both out working in our yards, I asked Leslie, “So how did the surveying come out?” She fidgeted with her rake and paused a full minute before answering. “Well, it turns out that the fence was a put up wrong all those years ago. My fence was three feet into your yard.” I looked at her, expecting her to say she was kidding, but she didn’t. I waited for her to continue, but when she didn’t, I said, “So what does that mean?”
“It means,” she said angrily, “that you gain three feet of yard, and I lose it!” She jabbed her rake at her garden and went on. “I hadn’t planned on this, and am not really too motivated to rebuild a fence around a tiny yard that was horrible to start with. I just don’t know what I’m going to do unless…”
“Unless what?” I asked.
“Unless you let me build the fence right where it was. It will be just like it was before, except new,” she replied brightly.
“Hmmm…I don’t think I can do that, Leslie. It might compromise the resale of our house,” I answered her calmly.
“Well, I just don’t what I’m going to do then. We may just have to go without a fence,” she said, her voice quivering.
“Whatever,” I replied. “Just keep us posted.” And we spent the next two weeks doing what we do in our back yard with Leslie and her boyfriend, now fiancé, watching our every move.
And the fence went up, about three weeks later, exactly three feet over into her yard from where it had spent the previous 25 years.
I live in a small town.
Friday, September 26, 2008
A New Roof
Life in my corner of the small town world has been very busy lately. No time for fun, no time for naps, no time for anything but work. Which is why today is such a wonderful day. It’s a totally free day.
There are many things I could choose to do with this free day, but only one thing I really want to do. I want to write. I had made a promise to myself and others that I would write at least every other day, but it’s obvious, especially to me, that I haven’t written anything of a creative nature for 18 days.
But as I sit here on my free day, I try to think of something worth writing about. I noticed that Jeff, our neighbor across the street, recently put a new roof on his house. The dappled red and black shingles look striking atop his red brick house. I can tell by the way he stands, Superman style with his hands on his hips, feet spread apart, and looks at his house each morning before going to work, that he likes the way it looks, too.
Jeff is an interesting study in a neighbor. He isn’t particularly friendly and has lived in his house, alone, for almost 15 years. I am quite sure he coached one of my sons in T-ball many years ago, but his lack of recognition or response when I wave each morning makes me question my memory. But then I remember how he never was a very friendly guy, which might explain why he and his wife divorced just prior to his moving into the neighborhood.
Jeff does his best to keep his yard nice. His house sits at the top of a hill, and the mowing of the grass in his front yard each week during warm weather is frustratingly comical. We watch as he uses an ancient push mower to cut the grass on the 85 degree slope. His thin, aging body struggles with each push, and at the end of the job, he sits alone on his front steps, elbows on his knees, one hand dangling down between his knees, the other lifting a frosty beer to his lips. I’ve often wondered why one of his two children don’t help him, but I recall they come by only occasionally, and stay a very short time.
One day a few months ago, I saw Jeff working feverishly in his yard, pulling out old shrubs, painting the trim, surveying the house from this angle and that, sizing up the place and making adjustments, major and minor, that created an overall different picture of the once non-descript little place. He seemed driven, and if I was sure he’d even know who I was, I would have congratulated him on his hard work and the fine end result. But as I said, he isn’t one to chat up the neighbors and seemed lost in his own mission.
When the new roof went on a few weeks ago, it was like a crowning glory. The whole house looked fresh, young and happy. When I commented to Fred about it one morning, he grunted and said, “Are you kidding? That roof looks ridiculous!” I walked over to the picture window in our living room and replied to myself, “I think it looks terrific.”
All the fussing and the fixing up of the house across the street made us wonder if maybe Jeff was going to sell the house, and move to a condo or townhouse with less maintenance and less of a reminder of how alone he is. In the 15 years since he’d moved in, I’ve watched him live in quiet loneliness, never any guests, his children barely there. I’m sure he bought the house, post divorce, with the idea that he’d create the perfect secondary home for his children to come stay with him on pre-determined days. Plenty of room and their own bedrooms to call their own when they came to be with their dad. But in all these years, I’ve rarely heard him speak, show emotion or be engaged with anyone or anything, least of all his children. Unless, of course, you count the emotional connection he has with the old push mower and the challenging slope of the front yard.
Last Saturday, Fred came in the back door and said, “Did you see what’s going on across the street?” He sounded excited and playful, which was surprising since I knew how exhausted he was at the culmination of a project that had consumed our lives for months. I looked over at him and saw a spark in his eyes. “What? Is he doing something else to the house?” Fred chuckled and said, “No, he’s not doing something else to the house. He’s got a woman over there. They’re standing in the front yard, and he’s behind her with his arms wrapped around her, snuggling her, and they’re admiring the roof.”
I live in a small town.
There are many things I could choose to do with this free day, but only one thing I really want to do. I want to write. I had made a promise to myself and others that I would write at least every other day, but it’s obvious, especially to me, that I haven’t written anything of a creative nature for 18 days.
But as I sit here on my free day, I try to think of something worth writing about. I noticed that Jeff, our neighbor across the street, recently put a new roof on his house. The dappled red and black shingles look striking atop his red brick house. I can tell by the way he stands, Superman style with his hands on his hips, feet spread apart, and looks at his house each morning before going to work, that he likes the way it looks, too.
Jeff is an interesting study in a neighbor. He isn’t particularly friendly and has lived in his house, alone, for almost 15 years. I am quite sure he coached one of my sons in T-ball many years ago, but his lack of recognition or response when I wave each morning makes me question my memory. But then I remember how he never was a very friendly guy, which might explain why he and his wife divorced just prior to his moving into the neighborhood.
Jeff does his best to keep his yard nice. His house sits at the top of a hill, and the mowing of the grass in his front yard each week during warm weather is frustratingly comical. We watch as he uses an ancient push mower to cut the grass on the 85 degree slope. His thin, aging body struggles with each push, and at the end of the job, he sits alone on his front steps, elbows on his knees, one hand dangling down between his knees, the other lifting a frosty beer to his lips. I’ve often wondered why one of his two children don’t help him, but I recall they come by only occasionally, and stay a very short time.
One day a few months ago, I saw Jeff working feverishly in his yard, pulling out old shrubs, painting the trim, surveying the house from this angle and that, sizing up the place and making adjustments, major and minor, that created an overall different picture of the once non-descript little place. He seemed driven, and if I was sure he’d even know who I was, I would have congratulated him on his hard work and the fine end result. But as I said, he isn’t one to chat up the neighbors and seemed lost in his own mission.
When the new roof went on a few weeks ago, it was like a crowning glory. The whole house looked fresh, young and happy. When I commented to Fred about it one morning, he grunted and said, “Are you kidding? That roof looks ridiculous!” I walked over to the picture window in our living room and replied to myself, “I think it looks terrific.”
All the fussing and the fixing up of the house across the street made us wonder if maybe Jeff was going to sell the house, and move to a condo or townhouse with less maintenance and less of a reminder of how alone he is. In the 15 years since he’d moved in, I’ve watched him live in quiet loneliness, never any guests, his children barely there. I’m sure he bought the house, post divorce, with the idea that he’d create the perfect secondary home for his children to come stay with him on pre-determined days. Plenty of room and their own bedrooms to call their own when they came to be with their dad. But in all these years, I’ve rarely heard him speak, show emotion or be engaged with anyone or anything, least of all his children. Unless, of course, you count the emotional connection he has with the old push mower and the challenging slope of the front yard.
Last Saturday, Fred came in the back door and said, “Did you see what’s going on across the street?” He sounded excited and playful, which was surprising since I knew how exhausted he was at the culmination of a project that had consumed our lives for months. I looked over at him and saw a spark in his eyes. “What? Is he doing something else to the house?” Fred chuckled and said, “No, he’s not doing something else to the house. He’s got a woman over there. They’re standing in the front yard, and he’s behind her with his arms wrapped around her, snuggling her, and they’re admiring the roof.”
I live in a small town.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Sanctuary
I live in my small town with my husband, Fred Shepherd, in a neighborhood that has seen better days. I’ve been in my house for 20 years, 10 of them with Fred, and can’t imagine living anywhere else, with or without him.
I have written for years in my professional life, and have spent the last two years exploring the creative writing process. And in the last 10 days, I’ve begun to share my work with the world through this blog. My dear husband has read my professional work and now, my creative work, and while he says he likes it, he says he knows I’m playing it safe with the creative writing. Topics that are entertaining, but not necessarily revealing in terms of who I am or how I feel. He claims I’m too comfortable exposing everyone else’s underbelly or passions, but not my own. And then, he suggested I write about my garden.
The entire exchange about my writing took place one evening last weekend while we were enjoying a cocktail on our 900 square foot deck that is attached to the back of our home. The two-levels of composite planks cover most of the grass in the back yard and are surrounded by what has now become an overgrown wildness that always appears late in August and early September. Glorious bunches of lush greens edged in dry brown droop over the retaining wall that initiated the building of this monster deck. The weeds mingle with the “real” plants, and I let them all live so late in the season because really, how long will any of them survive before the first frost of winter?
We love our deck. It is the most relaxing place on our tiny plot of suburban paradise. Lovingly built by Fred over the course of two summers, completed when a garden shed covered in cedar siding, complete with windows, was built into the retaining wall, just for me, a couple of years ago. No detail was too small, no embellishment too sentimental. Copper tops on the posts? No problem. Lighting in all the gardens? How many lamps would you like? Quaint little stone paths leading to various locations surrounding the house? Great idea. The Path of Inspiration leads from the back door to the deck. The Path of Introspection leads along the side of the house by the Butterfly Garden to the Bench of Reflection. All part of the scenery that defines our life together, all painstakingly created…for me.
Whenever I sit on the deck, either alone or with Fred or with our friends or family, I am reminded that he loves me very much, so much so that he took hundreds of hours of his life to build something just for my delight. There were many times during those many hours when he let me know how much it was costing him in terms of fatigue or what he was missing or the expense to our bank account or to his body. But always, at the end of the day or the completion of the portion of the project, his satisfaction was palpable. Partly because he knew he had done a good job, but mostly because he knew that he had made me happy.
Next up? A lovely little room that once was my office, but now is a place for me to drink my coffee in the morning or write in the afternoon or plan my garden in winter. A place filled with all of my favorite books and a daybed to relax and read on rainy afternoons. Fred has designed it in such as way as to create a space that will have the look and feel of a sunroom or a porch. A bright sunny room that will warm me in the coldest days of January and February when I long to see the snow melt to reveal those first hosta shoots in spring. A creative haven. A sanctuary.
Sheets and sheets of 4’ by 8’ bead board, all painted a soft green and cut to fit around countless little jigs and jags around windows and trim and floorboards and doors and book shelves and up on the ceiling. Trimmed out to cover the mistakes that come with working in a 60-year-old house whose walls are not exactly square or a 60-year-old craftsman who is tired but wants to finish putting up that one last piece of panel. An old hardwood floor revealed after years of being covered with carpet, sanded and polished to a sheen that I know will feel smooth and cool on my feet when I walk through the room to get that first cup of coffee in the morning. A cup of coffee that I know I will savor each morning when I sit in my sanctuary.
I live – with my wonderful man – in a small town.
I have written for years in my professional life, and have spent the last two years exploring the creative writing process. And in the last 10 days, I’ve begun to share my work with the world through this blog. My dear husband has read my professional work and now, my creative work, and while he says he likes it, he says he knows I’m playing it safe with the creative writing. Topics that are entertaining, but not necessarily revealing in terms of who I am or how I feel. He claims I’m too comfortable exposing everyone else’s underbelly or passions, but not my own. And then, he suggested I write about my garden.
The entire exchange about my writing took place one evening last weekend while we were enjoying a cocktail on our 900 square foot deck that is attached to the back of our home. The two-levels of composite planks cover most of the grass in the back yard and are surrounded by what has now become an overgrown wildness that always appears late in August and early September. Glorious bunches of lush greens edged in dry brown droop over the retaining wall that initiated the building of this monster deck. The weeds mingle with the “real” plants, and I let them all live so late in the season because really, how long will any of them survive before the first frost of winter?
We love our deck. It is the most relaxing place on our tiny plot of suburban paradise. Lovingly built by Fred over the course of two summers, completed when a garden shed covered in cedar siding, complete with windows, was built into the retaining wall, just for me, a couple of years ago. No detail was too small, no embellishment too sentimental. Copper tops on the posts? No problem. Lighting in all the gardens? How many lamps would you like? Quaint little stone paths leading to various locations surrounding the house? Great idea. The Path of Inspiration leads from the back door to the deck. The Path of Introspection leads along the side of the house by the Butterfly Garden to the Bench of Reflection. All part of the scenery that defines our life together, all painstakingly created…for me.
Whenever I sit on the deck, either alone or with Fred or with our friends or family, I am reminded that he loves me very much, so much so that he took hundreds of hours of his life to build something just for my delight. There were many times during those many hours when he let me know how much it was costing him in terms of fatigue or what he was missing or the expense to our bank account or to his body. But always, at the end of the day or the completion of the portion of the project, his satisfaction was palpable. Partly because he knew he had done a good job, but mostly because he knew that he had made me happy.
Next up? A lovely little room that once was my office, but now is a place for me to drink my coffee in the morning or write in the afternoon or plan my garden in winter. A place filled with all of my favorite books and a daybed to relax and read on rainy afternoons. Fred has designed it in such as way as to create a space that will have the look and feel of a sunroom or a porch. A bright sunny room that will warm me in the coldest days of January and February when I long to see the snow melt to reveal those first hosta shoots in spring. A creative haven. A sanctuary.
Sheets and sheets of 4’ by 8’ bead board, all painted a soft green and cut to fit around countless little jigs and jags around windows and trim and floorboards and doors and book shelves and up on the ceiling. Trimmed out to cover the mistakes that come with working in a 60-year-old house whose walls are not exactly square or a 60-year-old craftsman who is tired but wants to finish putting up that one last piece of panel. An old hardwood floor revealed after years of being covered with carpet, sanded and polished to a sheen that I know will feel smooth and cool on my feet when I walk through the room to get that first cup of coffee in the morning. A cup of coffee that I know I will savor each morning when I sit in my sanctuary.
I live – with my wonderful man – in a small town.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
The Death of the Neighborhood Drug Dealer
I live in a small town. A unique, well-defined, little community in the shadow of a booming metropolis. First ring suburb, aging, middle class. Houses close together, all alike, one right after the other. You don’t even have to be paying attention, and sometimes, you can hear your neighbors discussing the death of the neighborhood drug dealer.
I’m sure every town, big or small, has its version of a drug problem. I watch the news each night and shake my head when I hear about the drive-by shootings that accompany the drug trade in the big city. And I’ve heard horror stories of 50% or more of a Nebraska small town’s population being hooked on meth. But there is something particularly uncomfortable about knowing your neighbor deals drugs across the street from where you live.
He lived in a dumpy mini-Tudor home, on the side of the street where the houses are pitched side-by-side up on a hill. The houses where you rarely see the neighbors leave for work in the morning because they exit via an alley in back.
His house looked shabby and sad, and hid behind the overgrown limbs of dying trees and shrubs that needed water and a good trim. The steep steps up to the front door were crumbling cement, and the railing looked as if it would come off the posts in your hand if you tried to use it for support. Thistles and other weeds grew out of the spotty bits of grass. It was the one house on the block that not one child visited on Halloween night.
If it hadn’t been for the non-stop traffic that stopped in front of the house for five-minute visits each day, we never would have suspected that our neighbor was selling drugs. You can’t have that many BMW, Audi and Mercedes Benz owners driving into the neighborhood without something being up.
The clinching moment, and the first time we actually saw the man, was early one fall morning. As I made my way to the kitchen to pour my first cup of coffee for the day, I saw my husband, arms crossed, looking outside the large picture window in our living room, exposing his underwear-clad self to the entire neighborhood. An expression of mock outrage at his indecency barely passed my lips when he said, “I don’t think anyone is paying attention to me.”
I joined him at the window, more modest in my robe, and saw a surreal scene in the street in front of our house and the yard of the drug dealer. FBI, ATF, county sheriffs, city police, weapons drawn, ready to descend on the dealer’s house. The surrounding neighbors had been told to either stay inside or leave quickly via the alley. We watched as the officers moved carefully up the crumbling steps and surrounded the house. Within minutes, a small, fragile man came out, handcuffed between two officers, guns ready to shoot in case he bolted.
Which was not likely. As I looked at my neighbor, I couldn’t tell his age, but I could tell he hadn’t seen sunshine, fresh air, a decent meal or a shower for weeks. His skin looked dewey and gray, as if smoke from cigarettes and dope clung to it. He moved slowly and tentatively, and the officers on either side used their free hands to help the man as he walked. The entire crew climbed down the front steps and moved to one of the five police cars parked on the streets and drove off to find some wise judge to dispense some much needed justice.
And five days later, the luxury cars began arriving again. He was back in business.
A year or so later, neighbors from the problematic rental property on the block (the duplex run by the Tough Woman with the Yellow Hair) began bringing Corning Ware dishes filled with casseroles down to the drug dealer’s house. Rumor was, he had cancer and though he still did a little business on the side, things were pretty quiet. He was just waiting to die.
Two days before his eventual death, another ruckus took place outside of his house. A couple drove up in a navy Ford Taurus. The woman seemed to be on a mission. Her frayed cut-off jeans and jeweled turquoise tank top didn’t cover much of her very large body, and her exposed flab and bleach blond ponytail bounced up the crumbling steps with determination. The man apparently was along to provide some muscle, though how much was questionable since he couldn’t have been more than 150 pounds. His skinny arms sported a variety of faded tattoos and his wife beater shirt was partially tucked into a pair of filthy jeans that were falling off his waist.
Five minutes after arriving, the couple came out, slamming the front door. The woman, visibly filled with rage, yelled at the top of her lungs to no one in particular but of interest to those of us watching, “If you people feel sorry for this old shit because he’s dying of cancer, don’t! He’s a liar and a thief and a drug dealer.” And they got in their car and sped off.
The house stood empty for a number of months after the man finally died. Doug, the realtor who lives next door to us, bought the house and worked for almost a year to fix it up. He cut back the overgrown trees and shrubs and let the sun shine on the house for the first time in years. Inside, he cleaned every inch of the place and removed years of smoke and sickness and decay. He painted the walls and upgraded the kitchen and refinished the beautiful hardwood floors. And then he rented it to a darling young couple with a two-year-old little girl and another baby on the way.
I live in a small town.
I’m sure every town, big or small, has its version of a drug problem. I watch the news each night and shake my head when I hear about the drive-by shootings that accompany the drug trade in the big city. And I’ve heard horror stories of 50% or more of a Nebraska small town’s population being hooked on meth. But there is something particularly uncomfortable about knowing your neighbor deals drugs across the street from where you live.
He lived in a dumpy mini-Tudor home, on the side of the street where the houses are pitched side-by-side up on a hill. The houses where you rarely see the neighbors leave for work in the morning because they exit via an alley in back.
His house looked shabby and sad, and hid behind the overgrown limbs of dying trees and shrubs that needed water and a good trim. The steep steps up to the front door were crumbling cement, and the railing looked as if it would come off the posts in your hand if you tried to use it for support. Thistles and other weeds grew out of the spotty bits of grass. It was the one house on the block that not one child visited on Halloween night.
If it hadn’t been for the non-stop traffic that stopped in front of the house for five-minute visits each day, we never would have suspected that our neighbor was selling drugs. You can’t have that many BMW, Audi and Mercedes Benz owners driving into the neighborhood without something being up.
The clinching moment, and the first time we actually saw the man, was early one fall morning. As I made my way to the kitchen to pour my first cup of coffee for the day, I saw my husband, arms crossed, looking outside the large picture window in our living room, exposing his underwear-clad self to the entire neighborhood. An expression of mock outrage at his indecency barely passed my lips when he said, “I don’t think anyone is paying attention to me.”
I joined him at the window, more modest in my robe, and saw a surreal scene in the street in front of our house and the yard of the drug dealer. FBI, ATF, county sheriffs, city police, weapons drawn, ready to descend on the dealer’s house. The surrounding neighbors had been told to either stay inside or leave quickly via the alley. We watched as the officers moved carefully up the crumbling steps and surrounded the house. Within minutes, a small, fragile man came out, handcuffed between two officers, guns ready to shoot in case he bolted.
Which was not likely. As I looked at my neighbor, I couldn’t tell his age, but I could tell he hadn’t seen sunshine, fresh air, a decent meal or a shower for weeks. His skin looked dewey and gray, as if smoke from cigarettes and dope clung to it. He moved slowly and tentatively, and the officers on either side used their free hands to help the man as he walked. The entire crew climbed down the front steps and moved to one of the five police cars parked on the streets and drove off to find some wise judge to dispense some much needed justice.
And five days later, the luxury cars began arriving again. He was back in business.
A year or so later, neighbors from the problematic rental property on the block (the duplex run by the Tough Woman with the Yellow Hair) began bringing Corning Ware dishes filled with casseroles down to the drug dealer’s house. Rumor was, he had cancer and though he still did a little business on the side, things were pretty quiet. He was just waiting to die.
Two days before his eventual death, another ruckus took place outside of his house. A couple drove up in a navy Ford Taurus. The woman seemed to be on a mission. Her frayed cut-off jeans and jeweled turquoise tank top didn’t cover much of her very large body, and her exposed flab and bleach blond ponytail bounced up the crumbling steps with determination. The man apparently was along to provide some muscle, though how much was questionable since he couldn’t have been more than 150 pounds. His skinny arms sported a variety of faded tattoos and his wife beater shirt was partially tucked into a pair of filthy jeans that were falling off his waist.
Five minutes after arriving, the couple came out, slamming the front door. The woman, visibly filled with rage, yelled at the top of her lungs to no one in particular but of interest to those of us watching, “If you people feel sorry for this old shit because he’s dying of cancer, don’t! He’s a liar and a thief and a drug dealer.” And they got in their car and sped off.
The house stood empty for a number of months after the man finally died. Doug, the realtor who lives next door to us, bought the house and worked for almost a year to fix it up. He cut back the overgrown trees and shrubs and let the sun shine on the house for the first time in years. Inside, he cleaned every inch of the place and removed years of smoke and sickness and decay. He painted the walls and upgraded the kitchen and refinished the beautiful hardwood floors. And then he rented it to a darling young couple with a two-year-old little girl and another baby on the way.
I live in a small town.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The New Football Coach
I live in a small town. A unique, well-defined, little community in the shadow of a booming metropolis. First ring suburb, aging, middle class. Houses close together, all alike, one right after the other. You don’t even have to be paying attention, and sometimes, you can hear your neighbors discussing the new high school football coach.
Our town’s high school has never been known for its athletic prowess. Every so often, we’ll surprise the conference and play competitive games and maybe even win a district championship or two. In the 60’s, a few state championships were even secured. But we were never a serious, consistent contender. Never a dynasty in any sport. Every student knew it, every resident knew it, the entire state knew it. But it didn’t really matter. We always had academic excellence on our side.
But as mediocre as we are when it comes to sports, it was still hard to swallow five straight years of losing by our football team. Five straight years of winless football. We were a joke, the sure victory for any opponent, no matter how bad they were. Academic excellence aside, it was a wound into which salt was rubbed Friday night after Friday night each fall for five straight years.
My son was a football player in this dismal program, and suffered the embarrassment and indignity of never winning a game in the first three years of his high school career. He was chosen to serve as co-captain of the team in his senior year and that same year, the new superintendent of schools, recently hired away from the big city school district, lured the big city football coach, of the state championship winning team, to run our football program.
The fact that this new coach, and most of his staff, were African American, only added to the discussion worthy nature of this small town happening. These unsuspecting, championship winning, big city coaches were coming to run a program that historically had attracted mostly white students and repelled many of the good athletes. Most black athletes didn’t participate, and when they did, it didn’t produce the desired results, either for the individual players or for the team as a whole. Like the school itself, the potential of the diverse population hadn’t yet been realized.
When practice started in August, the new coach’s hard work to recruit any player who had talent appeared to have paid off. For the first time in years, the bench was overflowing and the faces of the team reflected the school’s diversity that had evolved over the last 20 years. Day by two-a-day, the team began to have hope that maybe this would be the year they would finally win a game. As the weeks of preparation went on and the players worked harder and had more expected of them than ever before, they couldn’t help but imagine a “worst to first” scenario that would create a stir, surely across the conference, and maybe even across the state. We parents, ever the realists, tried to manage expectations from the grandstands, but secretly hoped that the players’ dreams could come true. And we subconsciously hoped that the experience of this newly integrated football team and their potential for success would translate into the easing of the unresolved race issues that continually brewed at the high school.
When the team lost their first game of the season, it was heartbreaking for the players, the coaches, the school and the entire community. And when they lost their second game, disappointment threatened to turn back into the apathy that defined five years of football in our town. When the third game started, against a team much like ours, the stands were half full and hope was all but dead. Once again, we felt like a joke, the perpetual losers.
Which is why, when my son, a linebacker, intercepted a pass in the second quarter, it caught us all by surprise. When that interception turned into a touchdown, we were stunned. And when that touchdown looked as if it would actually turn into a winning game, we were all beside ourselves. By the end of the game, the stands were full as kids and parents called their friends on their cell phones, telling them to get down to the field to watch the team win. Towards the end of the game, the fences surrounding the field threatened to break down as students waited to rush the field once the clock ran out, victory finally in hand.
And when the game did end and the cheers finally died down, the most amazing thing happened. The entire student body, it seemed, was on that field, surrounding the team, and the coach as he did his post-game wrap up with his players. The silence was more deafening than the recent cheers of the crowd. There wasn’t a sound other than the soft voice of a man who had worked a miracle.
The team won a few more games that season, five in all, and lost some games, too. Certainly not a “worst to first” scenario, still not a serious threat to anyone. But it felt good to win for a change. And as far as improving race relations, let’s just say tensions eased a bit. All of the kids had something to share – the pride of having a winning team, and the realization that there was a place for everyone on the team.
Throughout the fall and winter following that memorable football season, the local cable access channel played that first winning game over and over again, and we would watch it every time it came on. My favorite part during every repeat was when my son intercepted that game-turning pass. The look on his face, the eyes wide open in surprise, the smile of excitement, the slight flash of fear, captured all the joy of accomplishment and the anticipation for what was coming next.
I live in a small town.
Our town’s high school has never been known for its athletic prowess. Every so often, we’ll surprise the conference and play competitive games and maybe even win a district championship or two. In the 60’s, a few state championships were even secured. But we were never a serious, consistent contender. Never a dynasty in any sport. Every student knew it, every resident knew it, the entire state knew it. But it didn’t really matter. We always had academic excellence on our side.
But as mediocre as we are when it comes to sports, it was still hard to swallow five straight years of losing by our football team. Five straight years of winless football. We were a joke, the sure victory for any opponent, no matter how bad they were. Academic excellence aside, it was a wound into which salt was rubbed Friday night after Friday night each fall for five straight years.
My son was a football player in this dismal program, and suffered the embarrassment and indignity of never winning a game in the first three years of his high school career. He was chosen to serve as co-captain of the team in his senior year and that same year, the new superintendent of schools, recently hired away from the big city school district, lured the big city football coach, of the state championship winning team, to run our football program.
The fact that this new coach, and most of his staff, were African American, only added to the discussion worthy nature of this small town happening. These unsuspecting, championship winning, big city coaches were coming to run a program that historically had attracted mostly white students and repelled many of the good athletes. Most black athletes didn’t participate, and when they did, it didn’t produce the desired results, either for the individual players or for the team as a whole. Like the school itself, the potential of the diverse population hadn’t yet been realized.
When practice started in August, the new coach’s hard work to recruit any player who had talent appeared to have paid off. For the first time in years, the bench was overflowing and the faces of the team reflected the school’s diversity that had evolved over the last 20 years. Day by two-a-day, the team began to have hope that maybe this would be the year they would finally win a game. As the weeks of preparation went on and the players worked harder and had more expected of them than ever before, they couldn’t help but imagine a “worst to first” scenario that would create a stir, surely across the conference, and maybe even across the state. We parents, ever the realists, tried to manage expectations from the grandstands, but secretly hoped that the players’ dreams could come true. And we subconsciously hoped that the experience of this newly integrated football team and their potential for success would translate into the easing of the unresolved race issues that continually brewed at the high school.
When the team lost their first game of the season, it was heartbreaking for the players, the coaches, the school and the entire community. And when they lost their second game, disappointment threatened to turn back into the apathy that defined five years of football in our town. When the third game started, against a team much like ours, the stands were half full and hope was all but dead. Once again, we felt like a joke, the perpetual losers.
Which is why, when my son, a linebacker, intercepted a pass in the second quarter, it caught us all by surprise. When that interception turned into a touchdown, we were stunned. And when that touchdown looked as if it would actually turn into a winning game, we were all beside ourselves. By the end of the game, the stands were full as kids and parents called their friends on their cell phones, telling them to get down to the field to watch the team win. Towards the end of the game, the fences surrounding the field threatened to break down as students waited to rush the field once the clock ran out, victory finally in hand.
And when the game did end and the cheers finally died down, the most amazing thing happened. The entire student body, it seemed, was on that field, surrounding the team, and the coach as he did his post-game wrap up with his players. The silence was more deafening than the recent cheers of the crowd. There wasn’t a sound other than the soft voice of a man who had worked a miracle.
The team won a few more games that season, five in all, and lost some games, too. Certainly not a “worst to first” scenario, still not a serious threat to anyone. But it felt good to win for a change. And as far as improving race relations, let’s just say tensions eased a bit. All of the kids had something to share – the pride of having a winning team, and the realization that there was a place for everyone on the team.
Throughout the fall and winter following that memorable football season, the local cable access channel played that first winning game over and over again, and we would watch it every time it came on. My favorite part during every repeat was when my son intercepted that game-turning pass. The look on his face, the eyes wide open in surprise, the smile of excitement, the slight flash of fear, captured all the joy of accomplishment and the anticipation for what was coming next.
I live in a small town.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Mr. Anderson and the Tough Woman with the Yellow Hair
I live in a small town. A unique, well-defined, little community in the shadow of a booming metropolis. First ring suburb, aging, middle class. Houses close together, all alike, one right after the other. You don’t even have to be paying attention, and sometimes, you can hear your neighbors arguing.
Some people might think this is a big, bad city. 45,000 disparate souls, packed onto tiny parcels of real estate, moving in and out of neighborhoods without ever knowing the names of the people who live near them. Children attending schools that have become ominous with locked doors, issues relating to race relations and a blind eye to the drugs and weapons that proliferate in the deteriorating halls. Colors and cultures of people who don’t look or act like the neighbors we used to know.
But to me, it’s just a small town, the one I didn’t choose to live in when I was born, but the one I have chosen to live in as an adult. My children attend the same schools I attended, love and hate the same teachers I loved and hated. They buy candy and comic books at the stores where I bought candy and comic books. Play at the same parks, swing on the same swing sets, bike on the same bike trails.
I know my neighbors, perhaps not as well as my mother knew hers, but I know them well by today’s standards. I know their names, their professions and enough to know whether they are here to stay or just marking time until the next real estate surge gives them an economic reason to move up and out. Doug to the left (real estate sales – he’ll be gone in five years), Ann and John to the right (software development and marketing – they’ll stay through the birth of their second child), Mr. Anderson across the street (retired – he’s a lifer on the block).
And then, there is “the house”, the rental property, the duplex, the property with dirt for a front yard, a trio of women whose professions are dubious, a pack of children (number uncertain), ages ranging from 3 to 12, colors ranging from white to tan to brown to black, and cars and people and police officers coming and going at all hours of the day and night.
The head of this household is a tough woman with yellow hair, orange, pot marked skin and a foul mouth. Her relationship with Mr. Anderson, her next-door neighbor, is tenuous at best. He spends most of his time from March through October each year keeping watch over the neighborhood, and his yard in particular, from an old, aluminum, folding chair he keeps perched on his front step. And she spends most of her time offending the majority of neighbors by her very essence – her brashness, her out-of-control household management style and the fact that she doesn’t care that her life and its lack of conformity by normal middle class standards shocks us and affects our property values.
One particular Saturday afternoon a few summers ago, they had an intense verbal altercation when one of her five motley dogs pooped, for the umpteenth time, on his perfectly manicured front lawn. For once, Mr. Anderson gathered his courage and told this tough woman with the yellow hair that he didn’t like it, not one bit, and would she please get control of her dogs, her children, her household and just everything that puts a blight on our neighborhood.
She responded as you might expect, with a slew of profanity that called into question Mr. Anderson’s character, his manhood, his age, his intelligence. And all of us who happened to be working or relaxing in our own yards that afternoon and heard the entire exchange, stood, holding our collective breath, waiting to hear and see what would happen next. When the tough woman with the yellow hair screamed at the top of her lungs, “Deal with it, you f***ing old man, you’re not getting rid of us! We’re here to stay!!”, the argument ended. She turned her back on Mr. Anderson and marched into her rundown house, and Mr. Anderson stood speechless and helpless in his driveway.
Almost 3 years have passed since that unsettling bit of human drama took place just across the street from my house. Mr. Anderson still has the greenest lawn on the block and plants dozens of bright red impatiens plants on either side of his front walk each spring. And he still keeps watch from that folding chair on his front steps. The woman with the yellow hair still lives across the street, next door to Mr. Anderson. Her children come around when they are selling candy for school fundraisers. They help us look for our dogs when they get loose. They wave as they ride their bikes up and down our street. Some of the little ones even sit with Mr. Anderson on his front step on warm summer evenings. And the garden that the woman with the yellow hair planted last summer is beginning to bloom and looks almost pretty sitting in the middle of the patch of dirt that passes for a front yard.
I live in a small town.
Some people might think this is a big, bad city. 45,000 disparate souls, packed onto tiny parcels of real estate, moving in and out of neighborhoods without ever knowing the names of the people who live near them. Children attending schools that have become ominous with locked doors, issues relating to race relations and a blind eye to the drugs and weapons that proliferate in the deteriorating halls. Colors and cultures of people who don’t look or act like the neighbors we used to know.
But to me, it’s just a small town, the one I didn’t choose to live in when I was born, but the one I have chosen to live in as an adult. My children attend the same schools I attended, love and hate the same teachers I loved and hated. They buy candy and comic books at the stores where I bought candy and comic books. Play at the same parks, swing on the same swing sets, bike on the same bike trails.
I know my neighbors, perhaps not as well as my mother knew hers, but I know them well by today’s standards. I know their names, their professions and enough to know whether they are here to stay or just marking time until the next real estate surge gives them an economic reason to move up and out. Doug to the left (real estate sales – he’ll be gone in five years), Ann and John to the right (software development and marketing – they’ll stay through the birth of their second child), Mr. Anderson across the street (retired – he’s a lifer on the block).
And then, there is “the house”, the rental property, the duplex, the property with dirt for a front yard, a trio of women whose professions are dubious, a pack of children (number uncertain), ages ranging from 3 to 12, colors ranging from white to tan to brown to black, and cars and people and police officers coming and going at all hours of the day and night.
The head of this household is a tough woman with yellow hair, orange, pot marked skin and a foul mouth. Her relationship with Mr. Anderson, her next-door neighbor, is tenuous at best. He spends most of his time from March through October each year keeping watch over the neighborhood, and his yard in particular, from an old, aluminum, folding chair he keeps perched on his front step. And she spends most of her time offending the majority of neighbors by her very essence – her brashness, her out-of-control household management style and the fact that she doesn’t care that her life and its lack of conformity by normal middle class standards shocks us and affects our property values.
One particular Saturday afternoon a few summers ago, they had an intense verbal altercation when one of her five motley dogs pooped, for the umpteenth time, on his perfectly manicured front lawn. For once, Mr. Anderson gathered his courage and told this tough woman with the yellow hair that he didn’t like it, not one bit, and would she please get control of her dogs, her children, her household and just everything that puts a blight on our neighborhood.
She responded as you might expect, with a slew of profanity that called into question Mr. Anderson’s character, his manhood, his age, his intelligence. And all of us who happened to be working or relaxing in our own yards that afternoon and heard the entire exchange, stood, holding our collective breath, waiting to hear and see what would happen next. When the tough woman with the yellow hair screamed at the top of her lungs, “Deal with it, you f***ing old man, you’re not getting rid of us! We’re here to stay!!”, the argument ended. She turned her back on Mr. Anderson and marched into her rundown house, and Mr. Anderson stood speechless and helpless in his driveway.
Almost 3 years have passed since that unsettling bit of human drama took place just across the street from my house. Mr. Anderson still has the greenest lawn on the block and plants dozens of bright red impatiens plants on either side of his front walk each spring. And he still keeps watch from that folding chair on his front steps. The woman with the yellow hair still lives across the street, next door to Mr. Anderson. Her children come around when they are selling candy for school fundraisers. They help us look for our dogs when they get loose. They wave as they ride their bikes up and down our street. Some of the little ones even sit with Mr. Anderson on his front step on warm summer evenings. And the garden that the woman with the yellow hair planted last summer is beginning to bloom and looks almost pretty sitting in the middle of the patch of dirt that passes for a front yard.
I live in a small town.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
For most of the almost 53 years of my life, I have lived in the same suburban community whose borders long ago began to blur with the booming metropolis that is its neighbor.
I tell people I live in a small town even though it doesn’t reflect the stereotypical image of that virtuous American icon. 45,000 disparate souls are packed onto the tiny parcels of real estate that offer up a modest version of the American Dream. We don’t have a quaint Main Street with precious little shops and a diner. Serious crime still surprises us, but isn’t a rare occurrence. You may feel uneasy and may even be in real danger when you walk our streets after dark. Our schools are gray and deteriorating, our young people pierced, tattooed and intimidating. Guns and drugs are prevalent. Race relations are strained by those in authority who haven’t quite figured out how to adjust to the increasing diversity that now defines our community.
But despite the description to the contrary, I still maintain that I live in a small town. My definition has less to do with geography and Norman Rockwell and more to do with people and how they interact with one another. Like people in any small town, we know who has the power in the community and can love them or hate them, support or oppose them, trust or be skeptical of them at any given time. We gather in key places where news is shared, ideas are exchanged and stories are told. We adjust cautiously for newcomers and interlopers. We worry about and react to change. And we celebrate with one another, argue with one another, gossip about each other, judge one another and care about one another.
I believe we all live in small towns. Some are just bigger and have more sophisticated ways of activating the town drum. Some offer more exciting and diverse entertainment options than others. Some keep their police departments busier than others. Excitement, danger, activity and sophistication are all relative. What really matters is how we judge our neighbors when they come in at 2:00 a.m. on a weeknight.
Everything we read and see and hear today is working hard to convince us that our world is spinning out of control, that people care less and hurt more, that hope for our future is gone. And believing this, we long for that small town place and time when life was simpler and safer and people were more civil. I, for one, believe that the small town place and time we long for was probably just a sanitized version of reality even back then.
I choose to embrace my community as the small town of my life, not all that different from the small town of my parents’ and grandparents’ experience. All small towns are comprised of people living with and around each other, creating a shared community environment that supports them cooperatively, judges them arbitrarily and celebrates them collectively. How they do that and how they relate to one another is what makes life interesting and meaningful. It also provides the basis of stories from a small town – any small town.
So much happened on the world stage at the end of the last millennium. Power shifts, massive brutality, economic boom and bust, war, famine, medical breakthroughs and political scandal. The biggest news in my town? We got our own movie theatre and another McDonald’s.
I live in a small town.
I tell people I live in a small town even though it doesn’t reflect the stereotypical image of that virtuous American icon. 45,000 disparate souls are packed onto the tiny parcels of real estate that offer up a modest version of the American Dream. We don’t have a quaint Main Street with precious little shops and a diner. Serious crime still surprises us, but isn’t a rare occurrence. You may feel uneasy and may even be in real danger when you walk our streets after dark. Our schools are gray and deteriorating, our young people pierced, tattooed and intimidating. Guns and drugs are prevalent. Race relations are strained by those in authority who haven’t quite figured out how to adjust to the increasing diversity that now defines our community.
But despite the description to the contrary, I still maintain that I live in a small town. My definition has less to do with geography and Norman Rockwell and more to do with people and how they interact with one another. Like people in any small town, we know who has the power in the community and can love them or hate them, support or oppose them, trust or be skeptical of them at any given time. We gather in key places where news is shared, ideas are exchanged and stories are told. We adjust cautiously for newcomers and interlopers. We worry about and react to change. And we celebrate with one another, argue with one another, gossip about each other, judge one another and care about one another.
I believe we all live in small towns. Some are just bigger and have more sophisticated ways of activating the town drum. Some offer more exciting and diverse entertainment options than others. Some keep their police departments busier than others. Excitement, danger, activity and sophistication are all relative. What really matters is how we judge our neighbors when they come in at 2:00 a.m. on a weeknight.
Everything we read and see and hear today is working hard to convince us that our world is spinning out of control, that people care less and hurt more, that hope for our future is gone. And believing this, we long for that small town place and time when life was simpler and safer and people were more civil. I, for one, believe that the small town place and time we long for was probably just a sanitized version of reality even back then.
I choose to embrace my community as the small town of my life, not all that different from the small town of my parents’ and grandparents’ experience. All small towns are comprised of people living with and around each other, creating a shared community environment that supports them cooperatively, judges them arbitrarily and celebrates them collectively. How they do that and how they relate to one another is what makes life interesting and meaningful. It also provides the basis of stories from a small town – any small town.
So much happened on the world stage at the end of the last millennium. Power shifts, massive brutality, economic boom and bust, war, famine, medical breakthroughs and political scandal. The biggest news in my town? We got our own movie theatre and another McDonald’s.
I live in a small town.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)