The Neighbor Hood

Usually life’s little lessons come from something you’ve done wrong, and you’ve suffered through enough inconvenience and embarrassment that you’ll remember never to do it again. Failing to proofread the hymn titles when typing the church bulletin comes to mind. (The Herald Angels SING. Southerners tend to drop letters at the end of words, but in this instance, the “g” serves a vital purpose.)

Sometimes, though, we get a little break and can take a lesson from the book somebody else has had thrown at them. Something like a two-for-one “You’ve Suffered Enough” coupon. I’ve been fortunate enough to learn some of these lessons from careful and conscientious observance of neighbors I’ve had through the years.

One ambitious fellow saw so much of the Sheriff and his dedicated support staff that we voted black and white our neighborhood colors and put up a little sign at the entrance to the neighborhood: “Leashed dogs welcome; don’t feed wild animals or stray children. All deputies report to the second house on the left for briefing and registration and to pick up a fundraiser information packet.”

Community watch takes on a whole new meaning in my neighborhood. We don’t just look for trouble. We sell tickets and rent lawn chairs.

Here are some of the things I’ve learned:

1. One baby goat cannot eat an entire forest covered in kudzu. Sure, any kid will do its part for a greener America, but like the small bottles of Coke, it can only hold so much. Also, if you try to burn a field of kudzu, the resulting blaze will attract the attention of a passing bicyclist in flame-retardant latex, a herd of motorists blinded by smoke, and firefighting personnel from three different districts.

2. If you pass out in your driveway surrounded by more beer cans than Paris Hilton has miniskirts, the neighbors will notice. Eventually a representative of the group will venture over to see if you’re dead, with the pretext of helping you up. Lay there long enough and they’ll either decorate you for Christmas or shave off one of your eyebrows.

3. If you’ve made a woman mad enough to slash the tires on your truck and smash the windows into a tinkling pile of auto-glass potpourri, you don’t need to call the Sheriff. You may as well reserve a deluxe suite at the morgue, because your body will arrive there in more pieces than M*A*S*H had martinis.

I don't anticipate putting any of these interesting facts to use in my everyday life. But they do serve to make my tendency to harrass the geraniums and torture the tomato plants seem a bit less severe.

These are the People in Your Neighborhood

After the divorce, I moved into a tidy (not to be confused with tiny, a more suitable word but not as polite) duplex, thinking with my best “house is half-full” mentality that eventually I would buy a house. However, growing boys and lack of child support being what they are, twelve years later I’m still in the duplex, scanning newspaper stories about the burgeoning repossession rate, and longing for an extra half-bath. But in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I try to look on the bright side of things, like the fact that I’m not responsible for the water bill when tornado season causes the septic tank to back up, which in turn gives the toilet, never one to be outdone, a chance to perform its best Horseshoe Falls imitation. While other people are experiencing a drought, I’m planning a rainforest room in the bath and wondering where one can purchase parrots and other decorative jungle wildlife.
The best part of duplex life is the close, personal relationship you develop, by necessity, with the neighbors. By best, I mean frightening and intimidating. I remember the young man who proudly secured his mailbox to its post with good intentions, old-fashioned ingenuity, and the clever application of three-quarters of a roll of duct tape. Since he still had some duct tape left on the roll, I refrained from any pointed comments concerning his design.
Then there was the Good Samaritan who rescued a stray puppy that, filled with youthful vigor, managed to wind its tie-out chain around our heat pump every morning, a particularly delightful diversion on mornings I was late to work. Since Mr. Samaritan was rarely home, the task fell to me to unwrap the dog. One particularly stormy morning when I released the prisoner, he fell to with such excitement that he lashed us both securely to the heat pump. With determination and a cell phone pre-programmed to call Emergency Services, I managed a successful escape.
Better than this were Adventures with the Goat Man. This latest neighbor, a-twitter with the discovery that goats are to kudzu what the combine harvester is to wheat, procured from his brother-in-law, a baby goat. While the goat was fairly attractive as goats go, she was merely a wee babe and not up to the task before her. Even an enthusiastic goat is eclipsed by ten wooded acres covered in kudzu. Goat Man spent much time away from home (do we see a trend here?), and although long absences in neighbors are often desirable, we felt sorry for the poor baby left alone, and ventured over with fresh water every day. I soon found that goat-watering is a task best left to a younger, swifter generation. At my approach, the goat’s natural fears lead to a frenzied dash whose path was restricted by the chain that tethered it to a discarded tire rim. The circles grew smaller in circumference until the goat and I realized at approximately the same time that we were bound together by circumstance and an alarming length of sturdy metal links. I discovered at this point that it is best not to call for help from your teenaged son, who is not mature enough to realize the tact and discretion necessary in such a situation. It’s enough to say that he nicknamed the goat Seabiscuit, and that everyone on the Eastern Seaboard was aware of our predicament.
Duct Tape Man is thankfully gone, along with The Samaritan. Goat Man in still with us, although the goat is no longer in evidence. In its place is a free-range dog, a frisky yellow Labrador that fetches beer cans to our door like other dogs fetch the newspaper. And although I don’t really approve of the dog's habits, I have to admire his manners in asking us out for a drink.

Green Thumbs and Dead Mums

People in these parts are fraught with distress and alarm about the drought just because the lakes and rivers are drying up, ecological conditions are becoming unbalanced, and a bad case of static cling could start a wildfire that wipes out the entire southeastern kudzu crop. The last time we had a drought like this it looked like General Sherman was the official state gardener.

I’m just excited that everybody else’s yard looks like mine now. If it takes a green thumb to make things grow, I have thumbs the color of root rot. So far this year, I’ve murdered a fancy bamboo plant, a hearty pot of mums, and a Venus Fly Trap. To be honest, the Fly Trap was self-defense. I didn’t like the way it rubbed its leaves together whenever I ladled my hips into my stretchy pants.

Needless to say, my evergreens aren’t. My dandelions aren’t dandy. My weeping willow just sniffles and wrings its hands. And the Queen Anne’s Lace along the driveway has been demoted to Lady in Waiting’s Pompom Fringe. Even under the lushest conditions, the Black-Eyed Susans set the color scheme for my yard.

I once worked in a building that was destroyed by fire. There were two plants in my office, the kind that people always swear that you can’t kill. Thanks to my careful ministrations, these two fellas were well on the fast track to the happy flower garden in the sky. Then fire struck. Emergency crews responded, and the firefighters fought valiantly, but the building was ruined. The charred remains were enveloped in the sickening smell of smoke and standing water. Once the air cleared and the scene of desolation covered the parking lot, a large, heroic fireman appeared, gingerly carrying something he had unearthed from the rubble. As he drew closer I saw his arms were full of glossy foliage, coaxed into rebirth from the water of the firemen’s hoses.

I know when I've been beat. I’ve killed a lot of plants in my time, but I never had any that called 911.