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Neighbors


Neighbors can make or break a place, can’t they? Unless you live on ten or more acres of your own homestead and can stand naked on your front porch without anyone being the wiser, neighbors are going to impact the quality of your life, and that’s a fact. Some of you live in places where there are no fences between you and your neighbors' houses. I had the chance of experiencing this while traveling through Waukesha, Wisconsin. Big old grassy backyards sloping down to a stream, where dogs were able to chase cats and squirrels for blocks on end without impediments. It gave me the willies. You backyard sans fences people, how do you keep your dogs from killing your neighbor’s dogs or wandering off to live two doors down where they have better food? Do you have to keep them tied to long tethers? I saw some of that. Lonely looking critters endlessly pacing within the confines of the rope’s reach. Seemed rather cruel to me. On the other hand, out here you can see manicured miniatures riding in baby strollers on a daily basis, and my own dogs were restricted to a 15’ x 15’ yard, so I guess I shouldn’t pass judgement regarding dogs and open spaces. How do you know where to mow and where to stop mowing lest you disrupt your neighbors' garden seedlings? Are your children permitted to consider all yards part of the football field? Frankly, the thought of unfenced yards is unsettling because I never lived in that neck of the woods. I thought I preferred boundaries until I realized that wood, concrete, chain link, or hedge yard separators still give people another excuse to be annoyed whenever a ball, cat, dog, or errant teenager crosses your wall and ends up in your petunia bed. Apartment buildings present their own challenges in regards to neighbors, don’t they? How many firewalls and layers of insulation does it take before you can no longer announce which television program the people next door are watching or when their infants wake up? See, the dilemma is that we humans are tribal folk. We do best emotionally when we live within a tightly knit community. Therefore, neighbors are absolutely necessary for our psychic well being. On the other hand, certain neighbors can also drive us batty, irritable to the point of leaving the city and joining the few and the far between. From my observation, if we live long enough and relocate from time to time, we have a chance to experience the full gamut of neighborly relations, from best friends to mortal enemies. The mortal enemy part in my life didn’t have anything personally to do with my downstairs neighbor. I never talked to him, other than an occasional nod as I passed his door on my way up the stairs. I didn’t realized he was a threat until one afternoon when I was pacing back and forth around the living room, trying to lull my months-old daughter into a nap. That’s when I looked out the window and saw his car parked in the driveway right below my window. That’s rather rude, I thought. How would the residents access or exit our parking lot at the rear of the building? Then I noticed several men get out of cars parked on the street, walk up our driveway and surround his jalopy while one or two of them went inside his apartment and dragged him out with guns pointed at his head. This is not good, said I to myself. The first order of the moment was to remove my child from random bullets and then decide who needed rescuing most. Her bedroom was at the rear of the apartment and she was sleepy enough to rest there for as long as it took Ma to play bounty hunter. So I laid her in her crib and crept back to the front window. A few guys with guns drawn had my neighbor face down on the driveway, while others entered his apartment. Should I call the police or were they plain clothes cops? There was only one way to find out for sure. I stepped out onto the balcony, leaned over the railing, and asked, “What’s going on?” One of the plaid-shirted men looked up at me first with surprise, and then with an expression I can only call bemused. “We’re police. This is an official raid.” “I see. Is there anything I can do to help you? Would you like to use my phone?” (This is not as insane as it sounds. It was before mobile phones were invented.) He looked even more bemused and replied, “Actually, yes, that would be helpful.” “Certainly. Come right up. Only talk quietly; my baby is asleep. Would you like some water?” I’m not making this up. He came in, called headquarters to report that the raid was successful, declined my offer of water, but did tell me my soon-to-be-ex-neighbor had a warehouse of stolen televisions and other items where the sofa and coffee table should be. Then he thanked me, again with the amused look, and left. I watched box after box get hauled away along with man in cufflinks and the car which he’d intended to use as a getaway sedan. When I reported this to my brother-in-law the Sheriff, he told me I was an idiot and to never do anything like that again. I sort of heeded his advice and sort of didn’t. You see, sometimes one just has to find out what’s going on with the neighbors next door, or on their front lawns to be exact. These neighbors were gypsies. I sort of deduced that because I’d lived next door to gypsies before and kind of recognized the women’s clothing styles and the periodic knock on the door for a cup of sugar or quart of milk. Gypsy side note: I can’t attest to this being a regular habit of gypsies in general, but the two families I lived beside had the most interesting system of house cleaning. They hauled all their furniture to the front yard, washed everything from ceiling to floor in an empty house, then hauled their possessions back inside, I suppose to dust them en route. This seems rather efficient if you’ve got the manpower and not a collection of heavy storage pieces. Perhaps it’s a relic trait from the wagon days or perhaps I lived next to the only gypsies in the world who do that, so don’t quote me. I had never seen any of the men living next door at this time, only the daughters of the house, the ones knocking on my door. Therefore, it was quite a surprise to come home from work late one dark night and see about fifty men gathered on the porch, our shared driveway, and the front lawn of the house next door. All the other houses on the street were closed up tight. I found my husband hunkered down in the back of our house involved in television, with no interest in discovering what was going on next door, so it was up to me to play detective again. Standing on my front porch, I nodded to the closest fellow and asked, “What’s going on?” He was kind enough to walk over and give me the whole story. “The old man died.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I lied, having no idea who the old man was. “We just arrived from Chicago for the funeral.” “Ah, that was kind of you.” “He had a heart attack.” “Did he?” “Yeah. At the track.” He tilted his hat to the north, the direction of the Santa Anita Race Track. “Dead on the spot, betting. He used to go there every day during the season. Not a bad way to go.” This person clearly knew more about the old man next door than I did, but I wanted to keep him talking. He was one of the most handsome men I’d ever laid eyes upon. Uniquely, exotically, utterly attractive. So was his hat. “We’ll be here until the funeral tomorrow and then we’ll head home.” “Let me know if I can be of any help.” I said as he walked back to his compatriots. That’s when I noticed they were all just as handsome, each and every one of them. It took every ounce of strength I had to refrain from following my informant and mingling with the crowd. Seriously. I could have joined them any time up until daybreak because they remained talking all night long. I guess they slept at the funeral. My offer of help must have been reiterated. Soon after the funeral, one of the young women knocked on my door, not to borrow groceries but to ask me to come over and sign some documents. “The old lady needs help with some insurance forms.” Why not? A bereaved widow needs some help. Who was I to refuse? It was the first time I’d been inside the house. The new renters were clearly as enthusiastic housekeepers as my previous gypsy acquaintances. Everything was spare and spotless and each piece of furniture looked like a priceless antique. They led me to the dining room where the old lady sat in front of some legal documents. “She’s applying for the old man’s insurance money, but they were never married so we need to prove they lived together as husband and wife for seven years or more. The insurance company wants someone else to sign the forms, not us.” Then one of the younger women shoved some papers in front of me. They asked me to attest that I knew the old man and the old woman for seven years and always thought they were married. I looked at her, looked at the old woman, assumed at least one of the names in print belonged to the person sitting in front of me, and signed my name. After all, the old lady had to watch the old man take any money they had and spend it on horse races ten months of the year. I figured she was entitled to whatever money he tied up in insurance. And if anyone knocked on my door asking how I knew them, I could always entertain with sugar, milk, and handsome men in hats stories. That should be the end of my neighbor stories but I want to finish on a happier note. The house in question is now occupied by a family from Nigeria. You couldn’t ask for better neighbors. The wife works part-time helping the elderly who are housebound, which reassures my children no end. She stops by with her adorable children from time to time. “We should see how Carol is doing.” I give the boys cookies or candy so they’ll come back again. Last summer I had a back-to-back weekend of reenactment dances. On Saturday I left the house in Regency attire and on Sunday I climbed into the car in a Victorian dress. On both days I pinned wigs to my scalp to make me look more authentic. During the Sunday dance I got a text message from the wife. “Carol, are you alright? My husband said I should come check on you because he hasn’t seen you in several days and another lady has been driving your car.” I assured them I was fine and the strange lady was me. Is that the best neighbor story, or what? It’s not his fault he can’t recognize a hoop skirt and fake curls as a costume. He was worried. They check on me. Adorable. It’s a much better neighbor story than the time my brother-in-law put all his neighbor’s trash cans on their roof as a prank. But that’s their story to tell, not mine. I’ll stick with armed entry, signing false witness, and watching out for the crazy old lady in hoop skirts.


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