Next Door, Please.

 Our home sits back from the main road behind a couple of acres of trees. There is a white signpost that states our name and the house number at  the road and the mailbox likewise sports our address. This information does not appear to be a deterrent to folks who really ought to be visiting next door. Peoples’ general defense is that they saw the white sign and turned in to our road thinking that they had arrived at the correct location. The neighbor has a similar sign but is up the road a piece. Since our sign appears first, so do the vehicles. 

The home owner next door does not occupy the place full time. He rents the home to weekenders for a hefty fee while he opts to stay away during tourist season. On one occasion, I walked out the front door to visit the peonies just as a little white minivan had pulled up and half a dozen people alit with their bags in tow. Ever mindful that perhaps I was losing my cognizant abilities in my old age, I quizzically scanned their smiling faces and realized that I did not know a single one of them. The driver asked if I was ready for the guests. Um, no. While they stood, smiling politely and aimlessly looking over the grounds, the driver and I quickly ascertained that they belonged at the rental house next door. Apparently they were to attend a wedding on the island and the house had been rented for them. Back in the van they went, a couple of faces somewhat irritated that I had refused them entry, although the no, they could not use our bathroom may have added to their pettish mood. 

Last week I looked out the kitchen window, observing three summery dressed ladies chatting loudly about the spectacular view as they wandered around the back patio. Somewhat bemused, I walked out of the kitchen and said hello. They turned to face me, a bit horror stricken. One of the ladies asked, “can we be at the wrong address?” I certainly hoped so, albeit they did look very congenial sorts. After introductions, and embarrassed laughter all around, it was determined that they indeed belonged next door. 

And yesterday I heard noises out back.  After investigating the source, I noticed the pool guys outside were opening our pool. I called the pool company to ask what that was about since they are not supposed to be here until the first week of June. Ooops. They were supposed to be next door opening that pool early ‘cause it is heated. We, on the other hand, wait until the sun does the job for us. 

Commiserating about all the unlawful entries with another neighbor, she allowed as to how at least our intruders were repentant and left quietly. She had the unpleasant task of ousting a small family who had driven to the house, then prepared a picnic for themselves on her lawn. They thought the view quite lovely so they chose her waterfront to enjoy their afternoon. She explained that her home was not a park and to please get out. More heated conversations ensued until her husband appeared, rifle in hand. That story beat my stories. 

Today I saw a For Sale sign on the next door rental so hopefully these mistaken entries will end soon or someone will make an outlandish offer on our home.  

VW and Thee

 Remember the VW of our salad days? Numerous friends drove the iconic, genuine, original four cylinder motor in the back VW. 

I recall a young wealthy friend was very despondent to learn, upon graduation, that she would not receive the Porsche she had so keenly desired but instead would receive the poor man’s version, the Karmann-Ghia, which we penury mortals considered the high end of the VW.

Another friend drove a bug that was missing a shotgun seat, so he replaced it with a a very efficient, and color coordinated, folding sand chair. The substitution worked fine until that last little moment when he hit the brakes; the beach chair would unceremoniously fold up with whoever was occupying it and, since there were no seat belts in those days, the occupant usually ended up kissing the dashboard. Those of us who were small enough to be accommodated in the back seat were generally intrigued by the fact that, since part of the floorboard also was missing, we could watch the main axle turning as we drove along to our destination; able to determine how close we were to our arrival by the makeup of the road below us. 

It was an economical car on various levels. Another friend was as financially strapped as the rest of us. Unfortunately, one day the rear gear shift decided to take a vacation, so she could only drive forward until she had saved enough money to visit the local mechanic. For two years she parked with enough space in front so that she did not have to reverse to get her car out of its space. On the rare occasion that she found herself in an awkward position, she would put the car in neutral and we would help by pushing the car until it was righted again. If she had the bad luck to not have a friend indeed she would leave her door open and push the car with one leg to the ground and the other on the gas. Finally having saved enough, she hoped, to visit the mechanic and not have to include herself as part of the down payment, the honest mechanic determined that the problem was caused by a two dollar piece of plastic in the gear shift mechanism. Her conflicting emotions knew no bounds. Her chagrin was short lived. She took the money that she had saved and invited her car pushing friends to her home for a very extravagant dinner that included wine with corks. 

The VWs were uniformly held together with duct tape and/or accessorized with clothes hanger wires. Those wires came in handy as radio antennae. The bug could be left anywhere since, really, no one was going to steal it. One friend remembered that if it ran out of gas, he could push it home. It was fun when we all were young and poor. Today we drive big and comfortable cars, but once in a while a VW drives by.  Those were the days, my friend. . . .  

Where Did All My Old Friends Go

 Summers of long ago were simpler. The mists of time remembered them as cooler, the evening blue hour was longer, the streets were safer, and we young girls, on the brink of womanhood, had our entire lives in front of us.  

We imagined ourselves so sophisticated now that we were old enough to hold summer jobs. I was a tour guide through the local newspaper. My girlfriends, too, had summer jobs, salesgirl at the bakery, file clerk at dad’s office. Our own money to do with as we wished. We were rich in those days, with that youthful magical feeling that everything wonderful could and would happen to us one day soon. 

And the summers’ Sunday night CYO dances cemented our friendships forever. Dressed in our light cotton dresses we met up and walked to church together wearing our scandalously high one inch heels. I would walk to Loretta’s house. “Hi, Mrs. Cavaleri, is Loretta ready?” Her beloved mom would roll her eyes at our ministrations. “You girls are beautiful. Your skin is so fresh, it needs nothing. Look, where drops of makeup took the finish off the dresser. What are you putting on your faces?” She would laugh and we would sheepishly snicker. Further down the block we would call on Angela, “Hi Mrs. Bartoli, is Angela ready”.  She worriedly admonished us to watch out for each other. And still later we would pick up Francesca, along with her cousin Rita, who was spending the summer while her parents were in Italy. 

The summer nights would watch as we walked down the tree lined street toward the church center that sponsored the CYO dances. As we sauntered, we bid hello to the neighbors who sat on their front porches, trying to catch an evening breeze and keep cool. “Hello, Mr. Infanti, Mrs. Infanti”. Parents kept their vigils on the front porches in those days. All the parents reported to each other, safeguarding each other’s daughters. We were, after all, their flowers, their princesses. 

Together we strolled, wondering which of the boys on whom we had a crush that week would be at the dance too. We spoke the usual nonsense of our age. “My aunt just got back from Rome”. . . “really, what did she bring you”. . . “do you think Tony will be there tonight”. . . “will your brother be there” . . . “is my dress too long”. . . “I thought Andy had a crush on Angela”. . . “my mom won’t let me get my ears pierced”. Oh, the laments of our days.

Our lives then went no further than looking forward to summers with each other. But summers wandered into fall and the years traveled with us away from the blocks of our youth. College, careers, husbands, children. Our friendships accordianed. We would lose touch, but eventually would find each other again. Time moved on, careless about what became of us. Mothers became grandmothers, retirement arrived, sometimes widowhood. In the gloaming of our lives, we now attend each other’s funerals, grateful for the memories and sorry for the loss. Harking back to yesterdays, there's a little tune that wanders through the corridors of my mind; don’t recall by whom:

Oh, oh, I remember summers,

but that was very long ago;

I'd sit and talk with the gals I knew around the block,

where did all my old friends go?

Over the years the neighborhood’s members became ghosts. The last time I walked down the block, I couldn’t recall the name of the family who lived on the corner, or the name of the widow whose daughter went to school with us. New families replaced the old ones. Looking for my friends’ old homes, I realized it was we girls who had become the shadows. As it should be. Where we were from was no longer who we were, but where we were from made us who we are. 

Ordinary Days

 

Looking back over the past few weeks, it occurs to me that ordinary days around here, collectively, are quite remarkable. What’s ordinary for one person is extraordinary for another. We all know that, so, now, consider these current events.  You be the judge.

Early one recent morning, the cat jumped on the bed. Scott grumbled, rose, then ruefully informed me that one of the larger purpura blisters on his arm had broken during the night and covered his side of the bed sheets with huge splotches of blood. A vampire would weep at the sight of all the lost blood. Me, I felt sorry for the laundress, wondering how soon she would ask for a raise. 

No further sleep would be had, so I sauntered to the bathroom sink, only to see my entire sink bowl covered with ants. WTF!?! Ants? It was freezing cold outside. Aren’t they supposed to hibernate during the winter? After drowning them all, I searched for further familial evidence and there they were; knitting themselves into a coil around the floor wall. Death by killer ant pods was the only answer for now, but I knew that this was not the end of this tale - there would be further retribution on both sides for this massacre. More would come to look for their colonist relatives while I, the evil terminator, called the exterminator. 

After making myself presentable I wandered into the kitchen where Scott was busily making breakfast. I poured out the ant story to Scott, wondering aloud how the day could get worse after all the recent blood and death experiences. He  looked at me, clearly bemused, flapped his arms and said “well, things just got a lot worse”. Worse? Wait, what? How? Apparently he was attempting to crack an egg on the counter. The egg yoke popped out of its shell onto the counter then unceremoniously slid down between the counter and the side of the stove. Scott clearly was baffled by my response, which was to laugh out loud, and keep laughing, but really, wasn’t it a Laurel and Hardy moment? I considered alternate scenarios; what if the ants found the egg yoke, then decided it was best not to look that one in the mouth. 

As happens with the weather around here, Monday it was winter and Tuesday it was spring. Spring means flowers blooming, birds singing and deer chewing on tender buds.  After hearing so much about how Irish Spring soap keeps the deer away from the azaleas and the tulips, I bought a dozen bars, cut them in half, and placed them around the various bushes. I was so pleased and proud that this year, finally, I would enjoy the blossoms in all their glory. The next day I looked out the window and the soap bits were all gone. Gone! But where? It’s not like our neighbors would steal half bars of soap off the ground. Scott’s best guess was that the smaller animals, squirrels and raccoons and such, had taken them and eaten them. The soap has no carcinogens, the “pure and healthy” scent of Irish Spring opens with fresh bergamot and citrus, followed by floral and herbal notes on a woody base. I’ve drunk wine with less of a bouquet. Who, or what, wouldn’t want to chomp on that mouthful of herbal goodness. Philosophically, we are taking comfort in knowing that if we see little animals with foam around their mouths they are eating Irish Spring soap and do not have rabies. 

And then there was the Vidalia onion incident. Scott loves those onions. During their season last year he ordered a 40 pound box on line. We ate onion soup, onion rings, onion pies, etc etc etc. He did the same thing this year except that something “went amiss”, so he says, with his order. He wasn’t sure that the purchase had been made since he did not receive a confirmation of order, so he clicked the “buy now” button again, and just to be sure, he hit it a third time. A week later we found ourselves with 120 pounds of onions at our front door. We shared the onions with the UPS driver, the cleaning ladies, the handyman, the DOD agent who came by asking about our neighbors, but that’s another story. Anyway, we still have 80 pounds of onions at our door. Beware all who enter. 

Not to be outdone, in the last but not least category, I rifled through my lingerie drawer, staring at rotted plastic and yellowed lace, realizing that it was time to buy new bras. With Scott’s eager encouragement, I wandered into the lingerie section of the local department store. I had no idea of the “magnitude” of well endowed ladies around here. Some of those darn things, starting at 45DDD, are bigger than the kayaks on our shore front. Jeez, finally a sales lady, noting my blank stares, asked if she could help.  I pitifully beseeched her, “I’m looking for a plain wireless non padded ordinary run of the mill 34B bra”. She gave me the fish eye, then stonily replied  that I needed to be looking in the children’s department. Children’s department? I dropped my head, shamed by my under endowment, and hied myself into the children’s department, looking hopefully for a 12 year old to guide me in this brave new world. And today is only Wednesday.