A Time For Neighbors

The little house in the photo strikes me as looking isolated. Since that is the lesson here, I chose not to crop the image. 

Ray lived across the street from me, in this little house, for over 10 years. At 91, he actually was in his house for much longer; I was the “new” neighbor and part of the reason for his observation, the street has changed, which he said almost in a whisper, with a touch of sadness.
The story starts with the end: Ray moving away. And then, the story backs up to two weeks ago. It was one of the rare nights I cooked, making a much greater quantity of stuffed shells than I knew Al and I would eat. It was a deliberate act. As I said, it’s rare that I cook and this batch of pasta would cover at least two meals.
Then I looked out my window and across the street to Ray’s house. As always, the light from his sitting room glowed through the front window. At least once each evening, I would look over for the light and the dark dot of his head, which I could see when he sat in his chair. This is how I “checked on” Ray. This night, I could not see the dark dot.
I cajoled myself into taking a dish of shells over to Ray (thinking to myself, c’mon Susan, suck it up). The day before, I brought home a cake that I would cut a slice from to add to the meal. Balancing the containers of food, I crossed the street, and stepped up onto his porch. Looking through the door window, I still could not see Ray. (Because he had bad legs, I would open the door a bit – if I saw him - and call to him as I let myself in. That was the system.) This night, not wanting to startle him, and considering that he might be in the bathroom, which might not be a speedy prospect, I returned home.
The next day, I tried delivering the food again. Still no Ray that I could see. This time, though, I stepped inside and walked through the house until I found him sitting in his kitchen. “I don’t sit in that chair anymore,” he said, referring to his usual TV chair that allowed me to perform my nightly Peeping Tom check. “I sit in this chair now,” he explained, pointing to a chair about two feet from the TV. “I can see from there.”
Not only did Ray have bad legs, he had bad eyes and bad hearing. When I first knew Ray, at 80 he already was long-retired but could be seen most nice days on his porch reading a western romance novel, books he finished at an impressive rate. He’d spot me or Al out front and would wobble over to visit. Conversation always required some shouting, but Ray got around, and visited, and read. These days, he hadn’t been able to enjoy even that level of activity. In fact, not long before, a whole year passed that I hadn’t seen him at all.
Joining him at his small table, I set down the food and told him what it was I brought. “I can’t eat chocolate,” he said in response to the dessert. I told him, that’s okay, he could flip it over and eat just the yellow cake off of the offending frosting. As we chatted, I realized he thought I was his visiting audiologist and had to give him a couple of nudges as to the fact it was me, Sue, from across the street, you know, Sue and Al. He could see my facial features in only the crudest form, and couldn’t hear my voice well enough to recognize it. Plus, truthfully, he just didn’t see me that often.

And that is the point: the isolated little house with the isolated little man, living across the street from the woman who isolated herself from someone because he required some effort to communicate with. Frankly, with my attempts to make my voice loud enough and deep enough, it was work.

That night, Ray told me he was moving. In two weeks. Having mentioned before the wisdom of getting out of his house, I hoped that this was another sketchy plan. But, this time, his plans seemed more concrete. I said goodnight, and left feeling pangs of loss. 

A few days later, a familiar white SUV was in Ray’s driveway. Tom was Ray’s devoted nephew who made the hour-plus trip every week to check in on his uncle, taking him to appointments, shopping, and to dinner. Tom was loading parts of a bed into his vehicle and verified that they were moving Ray to an apartment. It would be close to Tom and his family. He invited me to go in and say hello. Tom’s wife and son were inside with Ray. Closets and belongings were being sorted through. Ray, depleted, was leaning against a wall “supervising”. As always, he took the time to point out one of the many family photographs on the wall. (This time, it was one of him and his son after a hunting trip.) Diane and Jeremy were obviously kind and solicitous of their uncle. It was clear that the time had come for Ray to go.
Finally the day came; I was startled at the sight of several vehicles parked across the street. This was it, I knew. Thinking of some gesture to make, I grabbed the one baking mix I had out of the cupboard. Taking a plate of banana bread over, I promised I’d be back later to say goodbye. Al and I went over together later that evening and, on that last night, after over 10 years, listened to Ray tell his stories. The next day, Ray was gone.
This is all I know about Ray:
Ray Field was a gunner on a naval destroyer during WWII. He was one of a detail that was in charge of positioning the big guns on the ship. (He was responsible for the up-and-down movement.) At one point, he had to wait on the island of New Guinea to be picked up by another ship. The delay was due to the fact the ship had to be stripped because it could not get through the Panama Canal. Ray loved to hunt. He worked for both Colt and Kotex during his career as a machinist. He had seven kids, which included some foster children. Ray was fastidious about the care of his yard. He was our de facto neighborhood watch marshal. And he favored western romance novels.

I will always grieve the lost opportunity to get to know this man. I will always feel self-recrimination for my reason: that visits with him took some extra effort. But, I’m thinking visits with me take a little effort, too. 
copyright © 2012

The Poison Pen Letter (or Justice At Last, or The Art of Getting Free Stuff)

Aunt Joyce used to write what my mother called “poison pen letters”. I guess if I weren’t a kid at the time, or if her causes were relevant to me, I could tell you what injustices her letters were about. Maybe there was a missive to the town about the “mosquito trucks” that drove through the neighborhoods adjacent to the offending Cicero swamp, spraying a noxious fog and launching everyone into a panic, slamming windows to keep out the awful sulfury odor. Maybe her campaigns included a letter to the editor regarding the rising tax on cigarettes. Or maybe there was a simple letter of complaint to a contractor. But I can’t tell you.
I can tell you this: I was secretly awed by her activism. In my eyes, Aunt Joyce was practically a bra burner. I wished I could be like her and give those I perceived as wrongdoers a piece of my mind. Years later, I would have the chance. 
Fast forward to my “employment sabbatical”. Poison Pen Letters were definitely on my to-do list. All the merchants from whom I purchased shoddy products were finally going to hear from me! And there were several, from the retailer that sold me a desk that collapsed after just 20 months, to the corporation responsible for the strings of short-lived Christmas lights to which I've added each year until I had what looked liked the largest ball of wire east of the Ozarks.
My poison pen campaign would be easy. Once I got the letter set up, all I had to do was fill in the blanks and start firing away. 
I provide my template here, for your use.

TO: Retailer

Address

City/State

Dear Sir or Madam:
I am a loyal customer of (insert name of merchant – for the sake of illustration, we’ll use Bob’s Best Service & Merchandise) and have enjoyed a long relationship with your company. It is always a pleasure (start on a positive note) to come into the store every week (definitely pad this statistic to make it sound like you’re there all the time and critical to their bottom line) and to be assisted by (insert employee name – if you aren’t yet at the age where you get chatty with the help, use “Kyle” – there’s always a Kyle). Over all, I am satisfied with the service I receive from your establishment and heartily recommend Bob’s to my friends (just once, use a big word where a simple one will do, such as “establishment” for “garage”, and one big word that is totally unneeded, as with "heartily"). I can always depend on Bob’s for (the clincher: insert gratuitous compliment, e.g. courteous service, always having products in stock, Kyle's exemplary cell phone etiquette). 

In fact, I almost hesitate to write. (Ah, but you have.)

Now that you’ve let Bob's Best know you come as a friend, you can launch into your beef. Lead in with a statement that assumes your complaint is an exception to Bob’s high standards and, naturally, they would want to know about it. (In actuality, Chet in marketing opens these letters. We’re pretending Chet cares, but Chet is thinking about where to order lunch.) 
Use humor and aplomb. You may use hyperbole, but once is probably enough. Example: “I’m sure your employee had all the best intentions of putting my oil filter back on.” One sarcastic remark might make Chet chuckle. String the sarcasms throughout the letter and Chet thinks you’re a jerk and uses your letter as a placemat for his gyro.
In your closing, apologize that this unfortunate incident ever happened. Then – and this is the most important part - state the solution you believe would be fair. This is, after all, why you’re writing the letter. It’s not the injustice – heck, in customer service, injustice is the name of the game. You’d like to get a gift card but let’s face it, you’ll be happy if Chet sends you a free pen.

Note: My campaign yielded two responses and a cheesecake pan.                      copyright © 2012

Look at the cows, girls! (or, my quest for a perfect holiday)

I’ve always wanted to have the time to pay attention to Christmas. You know, take notice of things, rather than experience the usual mad rush. Enjoy the preparations, as opposed to be annoyed by them. And, this year, I did. (Have the time, that is.)

On family Sunday rides, my mother was great at noticing things. She loved riding in the car, especially along highways that took us through small towns. She appreciated every sight, and it’s a joke in the family to repeat one of her oft-said observations, Look at the cows, girls, look at the cows! (There were variations of this cry: Look at the horses, look at the planes, etc. And, I’m sure, at Christmastime, ‘Look at the lights’ was in there, too.) Years later, my daughter even added the Spanish translation: Miran las vacas, chicas, miran las vacas!

Working, running a household, and tending to children (spouses, parents, and the rest), does make it difficult to enjoy the holiday season. So, did it make a difference that I had the opportunity, this year, to stop and smell the holly?

Well, let’s see…

Presents.  Plan: To thoughtfully select each person’s gift, and have all packages beautifully wrapped and ready to go well in advance of the occasion. Reality: Have you ever passed a car on the highway in which it looked like someone was actually wrapping something? That was me. In fact, I’m sure when you spotted me, I had just left the store where I purchased both gift-wrap and the actual gift. Yeah, this year was so much better since I had all this extra time (read sarcasm). I’m sure all my loved ones treasured the gift selections I pulled out of my bin from last year’s holiday markdowns. (How’d you like that spoon rest, Sis? Don’t you worry if it breaks – I’ve got a stack of ‘em!) And, this is the third year in a row that I looked at the last knit winter scarf left from the cartload of clearance “grabs” and passed on it because I couldn’t remember who already had gotten one.

So, yes, gift giving was just as disorganized and uninspiring as it ever was. Except one surprise victory! In one of those truly irrational shopping moments, I had purchased a set of plaster cats at a sort of fair (why? who knows. I was caught up in the frenzy of supporting the cottage industries of various African villages) that was a hit with the recipient. Just the description, plaster cats, should have shaken me out of my deranged state at the time. Plaster cats. (I am shaking my head here.)

Gift wrapping. Plan: Again, advance preparation would have been my hope. Reality: Nope. Still no bows. No cute little ornaments. Yes, there were a couple packages where I ran out of tape and used Audubon Society stickers to finish the job. And, yes, some packages did have the recipient’s name written on the end flap because I was too lazy to get up and replenish my supply of gift tags. So, yes, the job still looked like it had been done by someone who had lost their will to live.

Cards. Send them out early! Sit down and enjoy the ritual of writing a short, personal message on each one. That was my goal! Reality? Despite my “open schedule”, it was first come, first served. So, Mary, Karen, Kathy & Bob, et al, let me take this opportunity to wish you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! And, personal messages? I think I actually started just initialing the cards like clauses on a medical waiver.

Decorations. Ah, decorating the house! This is where I was really going to outdo myself. Because, women, you know this means first cleaning the house to within an inch of your life. We can live in squalor 11 months of the year but, in December, the house must be clean enough to perform surgery on the floor. (And, if we’re going to clean the house like it’s never been cleaned before, then, by God, that garage is going to get cleaned out, too! If we are going to be miserable, so is that other adult in the house!)

Most of my “big clean” was accomplished, including cleaning out my clothes closet (because that’s so important for holiday entertaining). But, as I sit here enjoying my tree on New Year’s Day, I have to confess I managed in the end - despite all my fantasies - only to hang my trusty folk art angel on the front door, put up my minimalist tree, and arrange a display of the cards that my organized, working friends sent me.

Did I pay more attention to Christmas this year than in past years? Probably not. Sorry, I have no John-Boy Walton words to inspire anyone. I can say only that this year’s holiday was no more of a fiasco than any other year.

And, I can tell you, Look at the cows girls, look at the cows! Enjoying any part of life is all about noticing the cows.
copyright © 2012