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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.
Monday, September 29, 2008
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.
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