| Aug 26 2011 |
08/26/11
I currently live in the double-wide, mobile home that I inherited from my late mother and father. I find the term, ' mobile ', interesting that it has NO wheels nor axiles, andabout the only way for it to suddenly become 'mobile', was only if someone threw a stick of dynamite under the house, and then ran like hell.
When my folks first bought the lots, and had the mobile installed in 1978, the neighborhood was quiet, buccolic, peaceful, unbelievably green, and almost Edenic. My late father declared that 'this' would be his last move, having spent 23 years in the Army, and--in consequence--moving, always moving, never able to ever 'settle down'.
My mother and father quickly became friends with the few neighbors that were here, and together, they planted azaleas, hedges, flowers, and dad even started his own garden, which, BTW, produced 78 huge, watermelons, too much to ever give away, as soon, no one had any room in their refrigerators.
They took a bare lot, planted grass plugs, and watched as a new lawn was born; dad even built a substantial, open shed for all the gardening equipment, and, it exists, still, in my backyard. And I will NEVER tear it down, for it represented, not only talent ( as my dad was a genius, and multi-talented ), but a genuine committment to settle down, and make a peaceful retirement spot for each other.
In those days, no one had fences; no one needed fences, for if one or the other of us happened to mow well-into the other's yard, it was just considered neighborly.
My mom and dad truly loved it here, I think my dad, more than my mom, but she--much as did pioneers of the past--planted vines and flowers, hung fresh laundry to dry on the line, and kept their home in immaculate shape. They planted a fig tree, and when--in time--the tree was gravid with new figs, my folks would spend hours, 'putting up' fig jam, and sharing it with the neighbors.
There was so much wildlife to be seen and enjoyed; my mom and dad sat outside for hours watching the birds and the insanely histerical antics of the squirrels. Every week, my mom and da went to the bakery discount store, to buy loaves and loaves of past-date bread, which my father routinely cut up into cubes to feed the birds. It was not an unusual sight to see hundreds of ravens hopping-about to get the cubed bread. There was a birdbath, and I got to see birds taking their bread, to throw into the birdbath's water, to soften it up.
In 1992, I managed to purchase the two lots next to us, ostensibly to prevent anyone from, 'building right on top of us', but, no one ever did, nor even wanted to.
Since there were no fences to speak of, Sandhill Cranes ( considered at that time to be endangered ) would walk from lake to lake, and as my father and mother fed them cracked corn,they began to bring their offspring with them...tiny, little wobbly, balls of orange fur; they were that cute. And, as the offspring grew to adulthood, and had babies of their own,they--too--would make the trek to my folk's house for the corn, and, for whatever grubs they could dig up with their very, very long beaks. And, so this continued, generation after generation; here, they found safe haven.
In the yards beside the house, there were seven or eight Florida Gopher Turtles ( which are STILL on the endangered list ). Of course, they dug large tunnels, leaving little piles of sand, but none of us cared, for, it--too--meant that the turtles could be safe here, and I still love it when rarely I ever get to see one.
When I returned home, to 'unempty', the nest, so to speak, in 1984, five years had but wroughtlittle changes to the neighborhood;most of the lots were vacant, and overgrown, having been sold by mail--sight unseen--often to individuals 'up North', who really had no intention of ever moving down here to live. Such was the case with the two lots I managed to buy.
It was truly a wonderful life, with my mom and dad, staying up late--outside--with the neighbors, sitting out, conversing as they shelled peas.
For many years, we would go to the neighbor's house for Thanksgiving; in turn, they would come to our house for New Year's dinner. It was a grand time.
But things change, nothing lasts, and--if you think about it, even Adam and Eve were booted out of Paradise.
I got a night-shift lackey's job, whilst I remained to begin taking care of my dad, and then, my mom, as they were elderly, and became fragile and so very ill. I did this for 16 years, or tried to, even after my 'breakdown' in 2002, as my father died in 1998 at 79, and my mother, in 2008, at age 91.
And, though it seemed as if done by some callculated cruelty, I inherited a mobile home, thirty-three years old, that in the space of one year, suddenly need massive repairs; there went two of my old retirement bonds. The neighbors got older, got sicker, ttheir kids grew up and moved away. New faces were seen in the neighborhood, and, not all of them nice. On a street which once saw no traffic, witnessed gangs of teenagers in sly groups, slowly bicycling through the neighborhood; these were not children of an hundred tyears ago; these were hard-faced youths, on the prowl, taking everything in, taking inventory, and taking what they could get away with, or, failing that vandalizing that which meant nothing to them.
For over thirty years, we had a small statue among the front hedges, of a demure lady, bending to empty an urn she held; six months ago, I found it beside the house...someone has broken its head off, and just left it. Why ? I have NO idea.
Gradually, and more gradual, more fences were erected, to somehow separate the owners from the world, ouside; one near neighbor erected an eight-foot high, stockade fence completely around his home, so no one could even peer through. He and his wife were fairly recent additions to the neighborhood, and after I had made a couple of friendly overtures for them to stop by for coffee, the man proved to be ( please excuse me ) absolutely bat-shit paranoid crazy, and unpredictably violent as well, so I do not in any way begrudge his self-isolation from the world. Occasionally, they will pass by in their truck, and if I wave hello to them, they wave back...and that's it.
It seemed more than co-incidental, that as my health declined, so did the neighborhood, AND, the neighbors. And, more surprises were in store.
And when I could no longer drive my car, I discovered very quickly how such isolation could become more of a prison, than a Paradise. For, basically, I am trapped. The nearest convenience store is a mile away, at one time nothing, but now, with portable oxygen and pain, and with a cane, it seems farther than the moon. Our street has become a personal race track to a couple of motor cyclists, and a few 'hoped-up' cars; none of them, by the way seem to have mufflers, and the whining noise forcefully pushes its way into the house.
I had to rely upon stranger strangers as neighbors for groceries, and prescriptions; I paid them well. So, it is--perhaps--with no surprise that they fleesed me right proper, adding their own groceries to my list, and my check. What could I do ? In the process, before they finally left the neighborhood, they treated my car as if it were a urinal ( I once hobbled out to the mailbox [which, also has become a convenient target to run over], only to find the entire back seat of my car, filled briming to the level of the car seat with old Burger King bags, empty Mountain Dew bottles, wrappers, paper, cigarette butts, where they had evidently, when finished, simply tossed over their shoulders behind them. I telephoned him, in rage, to demand he at least clean the car up. But, dammit, I needed them, and they knew it. When at last they moved away, in part to my largesse, they returned to me a car with two flat front tires, a flat spare, a missing wire-wheel cover, and the casual mention of, potential 'front end' damage. And...as a parting shot, stuck me with a $700.00 gas card bill, accrued in a little over a month and a half. Obviously, they made near-daily stops to those gas stations that also have little grocery stores in them; so it was not merely gasoline charges, but doubtless purchases of food, candy, sodas, beer, and cigarettes. By the time I was able to make other arrangements for my needs, they were gone, and still, my once beautiful car sits a rusting hulk out in the driveway. But....with that, and the overgrown lawn and shrubs, and the house which desperately needs pressure-cleaning that I can't now afford, it truly looks as if I have nothing worth stealing, and any would-be thieves would simply look at my place, and then go elsewhere; at least, that is my prayer.
And now, my dear, dear readers who have so patiently waded through this mess, its time--I think--for a little, odd, bizarre-but-true fun.
I had occasion to telephone the County's Code Enforcement Office ( say THAT ten times ! ), as the lots behind mine were rank, overgrown, impeneterable, with vines crossing the fence to tangle in my tree and clotheslines, and, over-running with snakes.
The 'Code Enforcement' officer, while in no way resembling Hank Kimball from the show, "Green Acres", was, neverthelss as bubble-headed, and witless as his counterpart. Only then, did I learn that 'we' are zoned 'rural/agricultural'; I knew about the 'rural part, since I happen to live in a very poor part of a large, poor County, but, 'agricultural' ?????
What that meant--among other things--was that the owner, who lives out of State, can let his lots 'return' to their original, natural condition. IN other words, a jungle.
The agent who attended me was so polite, humorless, and serious, that I began to 'riff' him unabashedly, without fear of either insult or injury.
"Agricultural ?", said I. "Does that mean I can plant soy on my side lots ?" "Why, yes ", he said. As he did to my thoughts of planting corn, wheat, 'taters, whatever-in-hell, and fully armed with cane and oxygen, I could grumpily stalk down the rows, kicking at weeds, truly, a 'Gentleman Planter'. I was actually roaring by then, especially when I asked him if I could have a cow ? He actually went out in the yard with me, and looked around, and....measured it. Saints preserve us. And so the conversation went with me riffing, and he completely serious.
"No," he replied, "you have to have at least an acre for a cow." ( and I have about an half a acre ).
How 'bout an horse ? No. A sheep ? No, not enough room for a sheep, much less an herd of them that I would tether to a l-o-o-o-g string so that they could 'mow' my lawn for me.
Uh-uh, no goats, either.
"Alright," I said, "what CAN I have?" He looked at the yard for a long time, eyes screwed up in hopeless mental calculation. After yet another measurement of the property, he announced that I could have exactly two chickens, and three rabbits. No more, no less. Hardly the, 'Born Free' petting zoo that I had imagined.
But my neighbors to the side--in contrast--have tons more room than have I; so, without fear of official repraisal, they have scores of chickens, a goose, ducks, a dog, and--I believe--a couple of pheasants. Often, a little line of about six chickens in a row, leap over the fence to bobble their way across my yard...why, I have NO clue. But, you know, I don't care, as their antics amuse me; chickens are hilarious to watch in action.
Not so much, the two GD roosters they have, one of which perches on our mutual fence, sort of like the picture of the rooster on the corn flake's box, and begins to crow ( loudly ) not at dawn, my dear friends and readers, but at exactly 3:15 AM ( I know, because I timed it ). And does so over, and over, and over, and over again, and THAT drives me Nutz. Plus, they have yet another rooster, farther away, who sounds as if he's been ill, for all I can hear is a dimished, kind of 'Cock-A-Doodle Do', { cough, cough }.
And while it be most unneighborly of me, I would love to take a Kentucky long rifle, and pick that little s.o.b. right off the fence. Not that I somehow inherently hate roosters, but when I can't sleep, and am in deepest pain, and am roaming the house, wondering if I could but hold my breath long enough, I would eithther turn blue, or, pass out, and my money's on anything that will render me unconscious, and thus--hopefully--oblivious to pain, having to listen to the endless, strident squawking of a brainless bird who has no sense of time just pisses me off.
But then, these are the neighbors who--despite having a lovely home worth probably twelve times mine--when they run out of clothesline, drape their laundry all across the fence in front of their house. Its kind of 'rustic' looking, but as they are nice people, who are quiet, and not given to 24/7 Drama, I really don't mind it.
For.....after all, we ARE 'rural' and, 'Agricultural'. I'm just waiting for their squash plants to creep under the fence into my yard, for--in thinking upon it--I haven't had fresh squash in years !
And so, my faithful and kind readers, I shall close, as this has been a major 'pain' day for me, but not before thanking all of you who regularly read my diary posts, and have paused to kindly comment upon it, I wish for you all, a most quiet, 'pain-free' evening, and a most restful night.
And....NO roosters ! love, 'Charles'
I currently live in the double-wide, mobile home that I inherited from my late mother and father. I find the term, ' mobile ', interesting that it has NO wheels nor axiles, andabout the only way for it to suddenly become 'mobile', was only if someone threw a stick of dynamite under the house, and then ran like hell.
When my folks first bought the lots, and had the mobile installed in 1978, the neighborhood was quiet, buccolic, peaceful, unbelievably green, and almost Edenic. My late father declared that 'this' would be his last move, having spent 23 years in the Army, and--in consequence--moving, always moving, never able to ever 'settle down'.
My mother and father quickly became friends with the few neighbors that were here, and together, they planted azaleas, hedges, flowers, and dad even started his own garden, which, BTW, produced 78 huge, watermelons, too much to ever give away, as soon, no one had any room in their refrigerators.
They took a bare lot, planted grass plugs, and watched as a new lawn was born; dad even built a substantial, open shed for all the gardening equipment, and, it exists, still, in my backyard. And I will NEVER tear it down, for it represented, not only talent ( as my dad was a genius, and multi-talented ), but a genuine committment to settle down, and make a peaceful retirement spot for each other.
In those days, no one had fences; no one needed fences, for if one or the other of us happened to mow well-into the other's yard, it was just considered neighborly.
My mom and dad truly loved it here, I think my dad, more than my mom, but she--much as did pioneers of the past--planted vines and flowers, hung fresh laundry to dry on the line, and kept their home in immaculate shape. They planted a fig tree, and when--in time--the tree was gravid with new figs, my folks would spend hours, 'putting up' fig jam, and sharing it with the neighbors.
There was so much wildlife to be seen and enjoyed; my mom and dad sat outside for hours watching the birds and the insanely histerical antics of the squirrels. Every week, my mom and da went to the bakery discount store, to buy loaves and loaves of past-date bread, which my father routinely cut up into cubes to feed the birds. It was not an unusual sight to see hundreds of ravens hopping-about to get the cubed bread. There was a birdbath, and I got to see birds taking their bread, to throw into the birdbath's water, to soften it up.
In 1992, I managed to purchase the two lots next to us, ostensibly to prevent anyone from, 'building right on top of us', but, no one ever did, nor even wanted to.
Since there were no fences to speak of, Sandhill Cranes ( considered at that time to be endangered ) would walk from lake to lake, and as my father and mother fed them cracked corn,they began to bring their offspring with them...tiny, little wobbly, balls of orange fur; they were that cute. And, as the offspring grew to adulthood, and had babies of their own,they--too--would make the trek to my folk's house for the corn, and, for whatever grubs they could dig up with their very, very long beaks. And, so this continued, generation after generation; here, they found safe haven.
In the yards beside the house, there were seven or eight Florida Gopher Turtles ( which are STILL on the endangered list ). Of course, they dug large tunnels, leaving little piles of sand, but none of us cared, for, it--too--meant that the turtles could be safe here, and I still love it when rarely I ever get to see one.
When I returned home, to 'unempty', the nest, so to speak, in 1984, five years had but wroughtlittle changes to the neighborhood;most of the lots were vacant, and overgrown, having been sold by mail--sight unseen--often to individuals 'up North', who really had no intention of ever moving down here to live. Such was the case with the two lots I managed to buy.
It was truly a wonderful life, with my mom and dad, staying up late--outside--with the neighbors, sitting out, conversing as they shelled peas.
For many years, we would go to the neighbor's house for Thanksgiving; in turn, they would come to our house for New Year's dinner. It was a grand time.
But things change, nothing lasts, and--if you think about it, even Adam and Eve were booted out of Paradise.
I got a night-shift lackey's job, whilst I remained to begin taking care of my dad, and then, my mom, as they were elderly, and became fragile and so very ill. I did this for 16 years, or tried to, even after my 'breakdown' in 2002, as my father died in 1998 at 79, and my mother, in 2008, at age 91.
And, though it seemed as if done by some callculated cruelty, I inherited a mobile home, thirty-three years old, that in the space of one year, suddenly need massive repairs; there went two of my old retirement bonds. The neighbors got older, got sicker, ttheir kids grew up and moved away. New faces were seen in the neighborhood, and, not all of them nice. On a street which once saw no traffic, witnessed gangs of teenagers in sly groups, slowly bicycling through the neighborhood; these were not children of an hundred tyears ago; these were hard-faced youths, on the prowl, taking everything in, taking inventory, and taking what they could get away with, or, failing that vandalizing that which meant nothing to them.
For over thirty years, we had a small statue among the front hedges, of a demure lady, bending to empty an urn she held; six months ago, I found it beside the house...someone has broken its head off, and just left it. Why ? I have NO idea.
Gradually, and more gradual, more fences were erected, to somehow separate the owners from the world, ouside; one near neighbor erected an eight-foot high, stockade fence completely around his home, so no one could even peer through. He and his wife were fairly recent additions to the neighborhood, and after I had made a couple of friendly overtures for them to stop by for coffee, the man proved to be ( please excuse me ) absolutely bat-shit paranoid crazy, and unpredictably violent as well, so I do not in any way begrudge his self-isolation from the world. Occasionally, they will pass by in their truck, and if I wave hello to them, they wave back...and that's it.
It seemed more than co-incidental, that as my health declined, so did the neighborhood, AND, the neighbors. And, more surprises were in store.
And when I could no longer drive my car, I discovered very quickly how such isolation could become more of a prison, than a Paradise. For, basically, I am trapped. The nearest convenience store is a mile away, at one time nothing, but now, with portable oxygen and pain, and with a cane, it seems farther than the moon. Our street has become a personal race track to a couple of motor cyclists, and a few 'hoped-up' cars; none of them, by the way seem to have mufflers, and the whining noise forcefully pushes its way into the house.
I had to rely upon stranger strangers as neighbors for groceries, and prescriptions; I paid them well. So, it is--perhaps--with no surprise that they fleesed me right proper, adding their own groceries to my list, and my check. What could I do ? In the process, before they finally left the neighborhood, they treated my car as if it were a urinal ( I once hobbled out to the mailbox [which, also has become a convenient target to run over], only to find the entire back seat of my car, filled briming to the level of the car seat with old Burger King bags, empty Mountain Dew bottles, wrappers, paper, cigarette butts, where they had evidently, when finished, simply tossed over their shoulders behind them. I telephoned him, in rage, to demand he at least clean the car up. But, dammit, I needed them, and they knew it. When at last they moved away, in part to my largesse, they returned to me a car with two flat front tires, a flat spare, a missing wire-wheel cover, and the casual mention of, potential 'front end' damage. And...as a parting shot, stuck me with a $700.00 gas card bill, accrued in a little over a month and a half. Obviously, they made near-daily stops to those gas stations that also have little grocery stores in them; so it was not merely gasoline charges, but doubtless purchases of food, candy, sodas, beer, and cigarettes. By the time I was able to make other arrangements for my needs, they were gone, and still, my once beautiful car sits a rusting hulk out in the driveway. But....with that, and the overgrown lawn and shrubs, and the house which desperately needs pressure-cleaning that I can't now afford, it truly looks as if I have nothing worth stealing, and any would-be thieves would simply look at my place, and then go elsewhere; at least, that is my prayer.
And now, my dear, dear readers who have so patiently waded through this mess, its time--I think--for a little, odd, bizarre-but-true fun.
I had occasion to telephone the County's Code Enforcement Office ( say THAT ten times ! ), as the lots behind mine were rank, overgrown, impeneterable, with vines crossing the fence to tangle in my tree and clotheslines, and, over-running with snakes.
The 'Code Enforcement' officer, while in no way resembling Hank Kimball from the show, "Green Acres", was, neverthelss as bubble-headed, and witless as his counterpart. Only then, did I learn that 'we' are zoned 'rural/agricultural'; I knew about the 'rural part, since I happen to live in a very poor part of a large, poor County, but, 'agricultural' ?????
What that meant--among other things--was that the owner, who lives out of State, can let his lots 'return' to their original, natural condition. IN other words, a jungle.
The agent who attended me was so polite, humorless, and serious, that I began to 'riff' him unabashedly, without fear of either insult or injury.
"Agricultural ?", said I. "Does that mean I can plant soy on my side lots ?" "Why, yes ", he said. As he did to my thoughts of planting corn, wheat, 'taters, whatever-in-hell, and fully armed with cane and oxygen, I could grumpily stalk down the rows, kicking at weeds, truly, a 'Gentleman Planter'. I was actually roaring by then, especially when I asked him if I could have a cow ? He actually went out in the yard with me, and looked around, and....measured it. Saints preserve us. And so the conversation went with me riffing, and he completely serious.
"No," he replied, "you have to have at least an acre for a cow." ( and I have about an half a acre ).
How 'bout an horse ? No. A sheep ? No, not enough room for a sheep, much less an herd of them that I would tether to a l-o-o-o-g string so that they could 'mow' my lawn for me.
Uh-uh, no goats, either.
"Alright," I said, "what CAN I have?" He looked at the yard for a long time, eyes screwed up in hopeless mental calculation. After yet another measurement of the property, he announced that I could have exactly two chickens, and three rabbits. No more, no less. Hardly the, 'Born Free' petting zoo that I had imagined.
But my neighbors to the side--in contrast--have tons more room than have I; so, without fear of official repraisal, they have scores of chickens, a goose, ducks, a dog, and--I believe--a couple of pheasants. Often, a little line of about six chickens in a row, leap over the fence to bobble their way across my yard...why, I have NO clue. But, you know, I don't care, as their antics amuse me; chickens are hilarious to watch in action.
Not so much, the two GD roosters they have, one of which perches on our mutual fence, sort of like the picture of the rooster on the corn flake's box, and begins to crow ( loudly ) not at dawn, my dear friends and readers, but at exactly 3:15 AM ( I know, because I timed it ). And does so over, and over, and over, and over again, and THAT drives me Nutz. Plus, they have yet another rooster, farther away, who sounds as if he's been ill, for all I can hear is a dimished, kind of 'Cock-A-Doodle Do', { cough, cough }.
And while it be most unneighborly of me, I would love to take a Kentucky long rifle, and pick that little s.o.b. right off the fence. Not that I somehow inherently hate roosters, but when I can't sleep, and am in deepest pain, and am roaming the house, wondering if I could but hold my breath long enough, I would eithther turn blue, or, pass out, and my money's on anything that will render me unconscious, and thus--hopefully--oblivious to pain, having to listen to the endless, strident squawking of a brainless bird who has no sense of time just pisses me off.
But then, these are the neighbors who--despite having a lovely home worth probably twelve times mine--when they run out of clothesline, drape their laundry all across the fence in front of their house. Its kind of 'rustic' looking, but as they are nice people, who are quiet, and not given to 24/7 Drama, I really don't mind it.
For.....after all, we ARE 'rural' and, 'Agricultural'. I'm just waiting for their squash plants to creep under the fence into my yard, for--in thinking upon it--I haven't had fresh squash in years !
And so, my faithful and kind readers, I shall close, as this has been a major 'pain' day for me, but not before thanking all of you who regularly read my diary posts, and have paused to kindly comment upon it, I wish for you all, a most quiet, 'pain-free' evening, and a most restful night.
And....NO roosters ! love, 'Charles'
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