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Monday, December 6, 2004
Tree
I have a crazy excuse for a house, but my Christmas tree exceeds the outside dimensions of those semi's over on Hampton. There are only four ornaments on my tree, compliments of Lydia, four little gold bows. The rest is just tiny white lights. Last night I lit it at night for the first time. It is so beautiful that I am not going to junk it up with ornaments. I ran outside to see how it looks from the street...fabulous. And this street needs some fabulousness. Next door they have some holiday lights up but have not turned them on. Way down the street in the Colonial Place area, some houses have lights...over-the-top junky lights like National Lampoon Christmas. Across the street on an empty house a string of old lights around the porch keeps company with the American flag and a bit of faded plastic roping. Someone is rehabbing the place and I saw him one day come out on the porch, finger the American flag, take it out of its socket, reach for that tatty roping, then change his mind, put the rags of former occupants back and walk away. It all goes with the trash strewn weedy yard. Not fabulous at all. Then just a house away from that, the yellow apartments are getting a rehab in part. With two tenants out and gone, the owner has somebody over there who yesterday all day threw trash out the windowns and down onto the sidewalk and street. No, not fabulous. Worse than it has ever been during my shared tenancy of this environment. Then one house over from me on my side of the street, the owners have not cut their grass all summer and it is just hideous, a snarl of gigantic weeds and wind-blown junk. I don't know what's their problem. My yard person told me that they hired him to put together a new lawn mower and then told him that would be all. The new mower has never made its maiden voyage and that was in May. Oh, it's a long, long time from May to December and the weeds grew long back in September. Not fabulous. So, you can see that my tree is a major contribution to the beautification of 38th Street. Some people with pretty Christmas trees live in neighborhoods where those trees disappear in the overwhelming Christmasness visible everywhere. My tree is the only nice thing at all. It is the best tree on 38th Street.
Sunday, December 5, 2004
Exuberance or Misery or Whatever
Hard to say what I'm seeing across the street. Am I seeing a mighty overflow of energy with no sensible outlet? Are those people just wretched to the bone and desirous that the rest of us share their angst? Whatever, it's always something going on over there...loudly. Last night was loud for two reasons; one, a rental unit emptied as the inmates moved their possessions out into a UHaul and finally disappeared over the horizon. Two, the group of eight or so grown men who sit around on busted kitchen chairs and make noise all night every night, well, last night they tossed firecrackers into the street every fifteen or twenty minutes. They kept it up until those who were moving eventually weren't there any more.
The other day some brain dead individul said to me, "You know, I bet that if you waved at those people and called out nice greetings and were friendly, I bet they would be nice right back at you." I bet I'm not going to do any of that.
Now it is Sunday morning again and once more I am drop dead tired after being up almost all night hearing those morons carry on. What do they do besides throw fire crackers? Uh, yes, they have an extensive menu of weird noises made to just hear themselves make noise. One guy makes a noise like WOOF WOOF WOOF..... Another yells the F-word as loudly as a boiler factory blowing up...he does this about twenty times in a row, then shrugs and sits back down for a while. Another one has his own version of a Tarzan yell. Between noises, as the night passes on, they sit doing nothing, or suddenly for no apparent reason jump up and run down the sidewalk as if urgently needed somwhere, but turn before the end of the block and straggle slowly back to their seats. Sometimes they generate a little war over nothing, jumping up and down like monkeys and shouting into each others' faces, all bouncing around in a bunch, bobbing up and down and noise pouring out of their mouths. Once in a while they go too far and one actually gets mad. I saw a gun come out one night, aimed at a man's head. The potential shooter stood that way for a while as they all froze, then he shrugged and put the gun back into his pants pocket. One night there were two shots after one of those jumping and yelling sessions and the police and an ambulance came, women wailed and screamed...somebody REALLY got carried away. Mostly it's just noise. The thing is, that's how it is every night.
Night before last some goon with the most broken-down pick-up truck on this planet, stopped and unloaded his whole trash collection onto the sidewalk in front of them, CRASH, SLAM, KAPLOWIE!!! He did that around 3:00 A.M. They just watched him, didn't seem to care that their viewing place had turned into Fort Trash. They actually had to stand up to see out to the street over the wall of junk. THE NOISE it made!
And the question arises, is this behavior an outlet for energy which has nowhere else to go? Is it a case of miserable people making everyone within earshot as miserable as they are? Is it just plain insanity? Don't know. I do know that once again it is Sunday morning when I am going to help with the little kids at church and I am so tired I can hardly hold up my head. Doesn't seem right. "If you would just begin to greet those people and wave hello and so on, I bet they'd respond positively." That was said by somebody who lives on the other side of town. Here's what I would like to do and can't for lack of the necessary abilities: I would like to walk over there when they get rocking and rolling and pick up one of them, sit down, lay him over my lap and say, "You want to make noise at night? I'm going to help you. When I get done, you will be making the noise of your wildest dreams," and then bust his butt like he hasn't felt since Momma quit trying. Then grab another one and so on until they get the idea that if they are going to yell, they better be in pain already because if not, I'm going to fix that. No, I can't. They are grown men and I am a little old lady, but it's an attractive prospect, is it not? You don't think so? What I have to say to you is, living on 38th Street is not for the weak. I bet you couldn't do it. I'm doing it, but I'm tired.
Running Away From The Bad Element
This morning after things quieted down, the sun came out and the UHaul returned. I looked out to see my nice neighbor, the one who goes to early church, up, dressed, and ready to leave, but stopped to talk with one of those who are moving.
Nosy me. I went out on my porch and called, "Hey! What's up with the UHaul?"
The woman replied, "Ah'm movin'."
I asked, "Why"
She answered, "Gotta get mah kids away from the bad element."
I wondered, "What exactly do you mean?"
She averred, "People ovuh thayuh," pointing across the street to the yellow apartment building, "they always shootin' one anothuh and sellin' drugs fo' a livin' and we scared to be thayuh any mo'."
I questioned, "You don't feel safe?"
She rolled her eyes and yelled, "HELL, NO! They all like crazy in thayuh, bang-bang! Nevah know if a bullet gonna come through the wall. Mah kids afraid to get up in they bed. Sleepin' on the flo' so maybe bullets go ovuh they haid."
I said, "Gracious! Did anyone in there ever get hurt?"
She says, "Oh, honey! All the time. Las' August two of them shot each othuh and they one he didn' make it. Then they shootin' at each othuh in they apahtment and some get it sometimes. It goin' on ALL the time. A couple week ago one guy got it right out front."
I interrupted, "I believe I heard that one. So where are you moving?"
She said, "When ah wuz comin' up ah lived on the othuh side of Colley and it wuz white and black togethuh and real nice. Now it all black and you kin' fo'git it. This side of Colley getting mo' white and it comin' up but slow, not fas' enough fo' me and mah kids. Ah only stay heah long as ah did because of mah fathuh. He have Altzheimers and ah thought it be good fo' him to stay where he know what what. Now he gon' and we got us a house ovuh on Valentine Street. It almost all white ovuh thayuh." This from a black woman. She added, "It gettin' empty out. Upstairs lady gon'. She haid kid, too, and they lef' out last week. Now we gon'. Half the building empty. Nobody lef' but crazy drug sellin' freaks an' they mean ole dogs. You jus' leave all them people alone. They dangerous."
Aha!!! I knew that nut who told me to be nice to them was totally wrong.
Clearly this person does not give a darn about PCness. She simply wants to keeping herself and her children safe and identifies a mixed-race neighborhood as one less likely to tolerate violence. That strong, energetic young black woman moved out because this place is not safe. Falling apart old white me, I moved in. I'm crazy, right?
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Inspection
Don't ever get anything in an old house inspected by the city inspector who comes around to OK work for which a permit was obtained. In addition to the items on his agenda for inspection, he invariably sniffs out code violations having to do with other things in the house. Today....at last....the city inpector showed up to check out the gas line to my dryer.
While here, he said, "Excuse me. I really have to ask to see the basement. I don't like what I see about this furnace." My heart sank. I heard him down there growling to himself like a dog that has found a tasty bone. He was practically smacking his lips as he came up the stairs. "Well!" he barked. "The gas company is going to be here shortly to red tag that gas line because it involves an improper vent from your furnace. Have to shut off that gas entirely. Who did the work and where's the receipt?"
I yelped, "Oh, my goodness!! That's terrible. I'll be like someone living under a bridge. Why do you have to shut off the gas in December?"
He said, "No help for it, ma'am. Not up to code."
I started to cry and said, "You mean that unless the gas company shuts off the gas, I might blow up or start a fire or something?"
He said, "No, no. It's just not up to code."
I said, "Well, in that case why can't it wait until summer?"
He changed gears and said, "Now don't you get all worried about this. You don't have to fight with any of these people. I do all the fighting for you. I'll make them get out here and fix that in a hurry and it won't cost you a thing."
"Why not?" I wanted to know. "The company that installed the furnace was not the company that did the vent. That vent was there when I moved in."
"Ha!" he chortled. "The furnace installers will do it right and do it for free because they did not get a permit to install the furnace. That means they are in trouble, in danger of being denied the right to do business here. It wouldn't actually go that far, of course, but I have that power and I can hold it over their heads. For the price of a furnace vent, no one is going to endanger his entire business. When they installed that furnace, they knew they were doing something not up to code and shady by not also installing the right vent for that kind of furnace. I'm not going to give them an inch. You just find me your copy of the bill they presented at the conclusion of the work. I'll make them fix the vent. Call me when you find the bill," and he was out the door on the run, off to wreck havoc in the life of some other home owner.
A Whatever Tree
Tired. Coughed all day. Sat around yet again waiting for repair persons and their auxiliary ilk. The one positive thing...I set up my new and immense Christmas tree. This did not happen by magic. I am black and blue from that Christmas tree. My ceiling is 10 feet high, but I still couldn't squeeze in the fourth tree section, had to scrimp by on three. Standing with one foot on a chair back and the other foot on a ricketty ladder, I groaned and heaved those tree pieces into place with sweat running into my eyes and teeth gritted. Now I must bend and shape 2,400 branches, then test the ready-strung lights. Those might be good little jobs to get me through tomorrow's unevitable travail re. fising and safely inspecting this refried house. So, then I'll have a simply stupendous Christmas tree. What about decorations? By now I want to decorate it with plastic rats. VERY grim, humorless, and coughing perilously toward the throw-up until I rot point. PLASTIC RATS!!!! The year of the plastic rat Christmas tree.
Do I have any plastic rats? No, but that is not an insurmountable obstacle. I can far more clearly see myself shopping until I drop in pursuit of plastic rats than in potpouri-scented death traps for the allergic...joints like Michaels or A.C. Moore's...places bursting with red and green cheer. I'm not cheery and I am coughing and I think that plastic rats are just about 100% the right decor for this tree this year. If you have in the last couple of days passed through a store purveying the needful, call me.
Friday, November 26, 2004
Fresh From The Dump
An employee wore a shirt that read, "I work at THE DUMP." Right. That's where I got my new chair. We toiled over the landscape from this store to that, trying out couches, chairs...stuff for in the "new" 94-year-old house. Finally, toward the end of the afternoon, here we were at THE DUMP. The big local furniture emporium unloads its unsellables there. It was large but business was brisk. Benny had a great time. He tested chairs and sofas for squishiness. He ran up, down, and across mountains of carpet rolls. Yahoo! Meanwhile poor, precious little baby Sadie mostly slept through the fuss. She saw the doctor this A.M. and has a virus..not feeling well at all. Dan and Lydia carried Sadie and checked out dressers for in the kids' bedrooms. Furniture. Furniture. Furniture.
After a while it all looks the same...ugly. Then Lydia spotted "the chair plus ottoman" which got us out the door having bought something. So, it's true. I did get furniture at the dump today. It was delivered right away...such unsouthern efficiency. Now there it is inviting me to squash down into the cushions, turn on the TV, and take a nap. Lydia weaselled me into buying the brown sofa which is now my favorite furniture. She talked me into this chair, too. I'll probably love it.
Making the World a Nicer Place From Which to Go to Hell
Years ago I heard a sermon, part of which was a heap of scorn laid at the feet of those who spend their lives making things better here on earth. "All those people do is to make this a nicer place from which to go to hell," quoth the minister. "Better they should work to change the minds of those around them who are making the world bad and ugly. Fix the hearts of the bad guys and the conditions which are made miserable by bad guys' badness will automatically improve and stay better." Well, you can't argue against that. No. You can't. Not unless you call merely spouting drivel an argument. I, personally, can argue endlessly for or against every possible side of every issue, and I can't argue against that thinking, so you can't either. The man was right. ON THE OTHER HAND... the efforts of do-gooders may not add anyone to God's Kingdom, but I like them. I would rather live in a community of do-gooders than in a place where people like that don't roost. For example, what possible difference does it make whether a neighborhood contains a few individuals who pester the rest about property upkeep, issue warnings and issue award citations, get ordinances passed that make junky properties expensive to own? Aren't those characters just wasting their lives annoying the slobs of their world? Probably, but they're OK with me. As a matter of fact, I have two home-owners upon whom I wish them to turn their attention. Yes, in even this ratty, flea-bitten ghetto there is a self-appointed homeowner committee which issues nasty letters to those who fail to cut the grass on time. Without them, weedy refuse-strewn yards would be everywhere I look. Although their strictures do not have the force of law, no one likes to get a cut-your-grass letter. So there they are, whoever they are, making pests of themselves, wallowing in self-importance, taking pictures of ugly yards, sending out mean letters; I bet they are a pain-in-the-backside bunch of bossy bozos. I like them, though. They aren't getting anybody to heaven, but this area could look a lot worse...and no doubt would, without do-gooders. For all I know, they may not even believe in God and so would not be candidates for the job of regenerating the hearts and minds of their generation. Hey, they might live, die and splash into hell like a frog in a pond, but in that case it would be a deal like Martha Stewart in jail...the hell improvement committee. No, I know that isn't funny but I'm just saying...there's something to be said for do-gooders. And this was it.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Cause and Effect
Horrible story on the news. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving; warm fuzzy stories predominate. One bad story though. Six families stand on the sidewalk, kids and moms, evicted from the homeless shelter behind them, right out into that warm southern air...yeah, yeah, but it is sad. They cluster like a team in a huddle as a reporter intones, "Nowhere to go on Thanksgiving. Mothers and children sent into the cold at the 'warmest' time of year. How could it happen?" Really.
I'm upstairs lying on the bed in a spare room, watching a big-screen TV, all cozy and comfortable and just ashamed of it. "Lord," I pray silently, "why do I have so much and these have nothing? Should I call the police and volunteer to take them in?" Selfishly I cringe to think of all those huge fat people blobbing and flumping around my old frail house, but maybe that's what the Lord expects of me, and who am I to start scheduling the world? I go downstairs and start to tidy up, wipe out the sink, windex kitchen surfaces, put garbage by the door, fluff pillows. Back upstairs I put away this and that, vacuum here and there, set lavendar hand soap by the sink.
Now I'm back down watching TV and it's the homeless people again. Lined up this time, looking truculent, chins out. Reporter says, "It's hard to imagine how anyone could put these folks out at this time of year. We interviewed the head of the shelter here in Suffolk. She tells her side of the situation."
A beautiful and quiet-voiced person speaks, "We have learned over many sad years that compassion is not enough. In order to keep this facility on the map, we must live by hard and fast rules. As shelter personnel, we have high standards for ourselves. We must be quiet. We must be courteous, here and on time, willing to listen, clean and efficient. We keep the place sanitary and orderly. We provide necessary education and counselling to all those who must live here for a while. On the other hand, people using this shelter must abide by our rules. Those rules are; first, be respectful of shelter personnel and others living here. Second, use our services. When we schedule training, classes, counselling, we expect our clients to be there and pay attention. Then we expect our clients to use what they have been taught. The women and their children whom we have put out on the street have failed to meet any of those standards. They are extremely rude and disrespectful to everyone, even to one another. They do not attend classes. They ignore times for training and counselling. What we have managed to teach them, they do not use. Worst of all, they think their behavior is funny. They encourage one another to do the wrong thing and they laugh in our faces. They actively urge their children to break rules, to be loud, profane and vulgar. Many, many times they have been warned, 'What will happen to you if we need to put you out? What will happen to your children?' Anytime someone tries to reason with them along those lines, they immediately turn abusive, threatening. In short they have made this place mean, scary, loud, and hard to bear for the employees and for other clients living on the premises. After months of warnings and patience, they must now go somewhere else. Maybe a few nights out in the cold rain will do them some good. They need a reality check."
Well, honey, they sure aren't coming in MY house!!!!
Posted by doubledog at 11:11 AM
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Updated: Wednesday, November 24, 2004 11:23 AM
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Ghetto Groceries
Two weeks in a row, now, I have spurned the lah-dee-dah grocery store my daughter goes to and I have patronized the ghetto grocery where my neighbors go, a joint that jumps all around the clock. I do this in rebellion against prices at the historic district store, easily 30% more per check-out total. That's one reason. The other reason is that I like to think I CAN get into and out of the ghetto grocery and make it back home alive from such a very chancy place. A gigantic security guard patrolled the store yesterday, one hand resting on the butt of his gun, beady eyes hard-staring at the customers. He had that, "Go ahead and make my day," look about himself. When I asked the (also armed with a gun) bagger what might be a less-busy time to shop, she said, "Six A.M., ma'am. Not so many criminals out here tryin' to steal they menu. They sleepin' in. You try six A.M. next time, a old lady like you." She softened this advice with a beautiful, white-teeth smile, but I got the idea. I was taking my life in my hands shopping after dark. So the ghetto grocery is cheaper, and it's got kind of a zing of danger that makes buying diet coke and roast beef more interesting than it usually has been in my past. The best reason to shop there, however, is the entertainment value. Going in I watched a woman give an academy award worthy performance as "Royal Person Bestows Her Presence On The Peons". She drove up in a falling apart old rust bucket. Parked right where you go in and out of the store in everyone's way. Although it was after dark, she put on a pair of sunglasses with such magnificently stylish gestures that I stood in my tracks to see the whole show. She reached into the back seat for a jacket and put it on with endless little fussings and adjustments, all in a manner as haughty as a rock star except that she was ferociously chomping gum. Once into the store she grabbed a cart and stepped directly in front of me so that I had to back up to get out of her way. I thought of going around her but she seemed to anticipate that I might try this and she turned her cart sideways across the aisle. Looking around in the air over my head, she still received the plaudits of thousands of invisible fans. I'm a pretty haughty person myself and was just about to give her the clue about making way for others when I realized that so-doing would deprive this poor soul of her fabulously imagined experience, and anyway I was in no hurry, and besides, it was fun to watch. After a while some of her fellow ghettoites came along and told her loudly to move it. She did and I got past in their wake. Less than a minute later, she said in the loudest voice possible, "Get yo'sef out mah way!!!" I jumped. She was chastising me for holding up her royal progress. I humbly cringed myself into the pasta shelf to give her the entire aisle. She thundered, "Ah thank you!" sailing by me with her nose in the air. Rich and rare. Then there was the bent-over little old woman with a cane across her cart and no teeth. She tooled around like there would be a prize for speedy cart maneuvers, accidentally-on-purpose bashing into others with her cart and chirping out, "Escuse yo'sef!" When I finally got into one of the loooooong check out lines, I observed her going back and forth across those lines just for the heck of hitting people and watching them jump. The long wait to check out provided opportunity to see a lot of sad but silly behavior as person after person tried to buy alcohol or tobacco with some kind of assistance verification. One woman,especially determined, tried four different lines in an attempt to get a six-pack of beer without using money or a credit card. In the fourth line she put the beer under her jacket and sidled up to a man in front of her as though she were just along for the ride with him and not trying to make a purchase of her own. The big guy with the gun got her by the arm and led her out of the store minus the beer. She made a feeble effort at creating a disturbance but the big guy was fast. He had her out the door sooner than it would have taken her to work up a rip roaring carry-on. Several groups of young men trying to herd through the checkout together and so avoid paying for the items secreted under their clothing...they too were grabbed and shucked like an ear of corn, then tossed into the parking lot where they laughed merrily as though that had been pretty good fun. Besides the goofiness of my fellow customers, I found the available products an experience of cultural diversity. At the pork counter, I found great big white packages with see-through tops. Above that section of the meat cases, I read, "Precooked, ready-to-eat pork stomachs." Somewhere along that meat area, every part of animals both familiar and not...it was all there somewhere, cheap and horrible. The bread section had only one kind of the brown multi-grain bread I eat. The rest of that side of the aisle was white bread, lots of kinds, all junk. Later at the check-out I saw that every cart had several loaves of this useless stuff. Many carts held white bread, a big-box brand of mac and cheese unfamiliar to me, weird meats, big bundles of greens that I have never tried, giant boxes/bags of store brand kiddie cereal, milk, chips, and beer. I was in line behind two of the sort of people who live in the ghetto briefly after arriving in America, while they get computer degrees, two Indian gentlemen, extremely quiet in this loud, crazy place. They were trying not to tailgate, leaving a cart length between themselves and the rowdy gang in front of them. Bad idea. Person after person insolently cruised right up the line, sized them up as not likely to raise a disturbance, and slid a cart between them and the one ahead of them in line. I watched their frustration as this happened again and again. They just could not bring themselves to say something to those rude ghetto rats taking advantage of their courtesy. Finally, taking pity on them and myself, I saw another group approach the gap in front of the Indians, caught the eye of the goon pushing the cart and gave him my famous, freeze-a-charging-rhino-at-40-paces eye. The whole bunch scuttled back to the end of the line. Surprised, one of the Indian chaps turned around to see what had civilized his tormenters and saw only little old me. I gave him a big wink which must have been an indecent thing to do back where he came from. He looked terribly embarrassed, said, "Whatever you did, thank you. This happens here all the time." So besides getting some entertainment with the groceries, I had a chance to be a humanitarian. I might get bumped off some day shopping at the ghetto grocery, but until then, I think that's where I'll shop.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Leaves
A month ago, driving south, I decided that down here in Cox Cable Land, leaves haven't figured out about fall. Now they're getting it.
I like to have morning coffee on my porch, and that's a good thing about being here. It's just before Thanksgiving, but I can sit on my nice, spacious porch and drink coffee while waiting for the crippled, three-headed, refried paper boy to deliver my Sunday paper into the flowers. Anyway, I'm sitting there drinking coffee and thinking unflatteringly about the paper boy when I notice the nearest tree...and it is so lovely...all red and orange and yellow. This truly is an exemplar-of-the-splendor-of-fall tree. Gorgeous actually. Finally not green any more. Getting those colors going. MmmHM!
Just in time to edge in front of the Christmas tree in the parade of life. Last night was the annual Christmas Parade immediately after which downtown lights up for "the holidays". After the parade, after those holiday lights went on for the first time, fireworks exploded and it sounded like from my back yard. I was watching TV like any other right-thinking parade avoider, and KABLAMMY!!!! Rocked me right up off the sofa. so I guess that's it...now it's the "holiday season".
And the leaves finally show some red with the green. Up north where things are more thought out, leaves give themselves a chance to star, to be alone on stage, to get a big hand, to make three curtain calls and receive tributes from the fans. Down here, autumn leaves scamper onstage shyly behind Santa. Doesn't seem right. I watched them, though, while drinking a whole cup of coffee...which for me is a long time.
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