I feel, as the month draws to a close, that I can breathe freely again. This will be short. I simply wanted to end the month on a high note.
I have begun three more paintings of my own. I have a good amount of work from Stanford to keep me going for the next month or two. I try not to look past that, because one just never knows. I have work. It's work that I find rewarding. Maybe it's wise NOT to look past that point for now!
I will be submitting my short story called "The Secret Life of Mindy Walters" for a contest. Those who are too young to understand the reference won't be put off by the title one bit, and that working title makes me laugh. The challenge was to write a story of fewer than 3000 words or so, that show some aspect of modern life. Mine was 24/7 accessibility of moms. Mindy has taken off to go on the family vacation three days before her husband and daughter will join her. She has DESERTED them for her daughter's last two days of school, even. It begins with the cell phone call from the husband, with the texting from the daughter coming, too. She has a running conversation in her head about driving straight north to Canada instead of "turning right" to go to the Island.
The story may stink, but I sure am having fun writing it... my defense of all modern moms who seem to have bought into our culture's decision that we must be accessible, available, ON THE READY every hour of every day.
How I loved being wholly dispensable.
What else? There are major construction vehicles outside my home digging up the road to put in the remaining sewer lines. They decided, SIX years after finishing the sewer lines, that the twelve existing homes without sewer lines were not "dead." The town said we were a dead neighborhood. I asked whether that meant we no longer had to pay taxes, but they did not laugh. Turns out they'd put one of those places for MY home already. I live on a corner. So they are stopping at the house next door. When I asked, "So we've had the option all along to hook up?"
He said, "Well, I don't know. We may not have put the line deep enough for you to ever use, even though, technically you could. But because it's there, we'd have to charge you about ten thousand if you wanted us to extend the line to the the low part of your house. Isn't that funny?"
I said, "No, not really. This town gets me coming and going, huh."
He went, "Oh, yeah. You're the lady who just wanted to teach art, huh? Man. You probably don't think much of this town, huh."
"Not so much, no."
Fortunately, so far the septic tanks work. And we do have the lateral hook up... Maybe we could connect if it came to that. Perhaps this is one of those lessons in life again about NOT looking for trouble. I don't have to have anything done for now at all, and that's a good thing. I think I'll call the septic folks in the morning though, and have the two tanks pumped.
Uh-oh. There goes my cell phone...
Accidental Spring
"Accidental Spring" This began as the background for painting other papers, but became something else!
Showing posts with label neighbors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighbors. Show all posts
Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Neighbors of the New Millenium
I had an experience that saddened me beyond words. I was torpedoed at a zoning board meeting. The board did not foresee the outrage of my neighbors on the cul de sac. I would put their children at risk, having up to EIGHT cars potentially leaving my home all at once during school hours. I am changing the tenor of the neighborhood, trying to sneak in a big business like running art workshops up to three days a week in my home.
Yes, indeed, I am a subversive. We moved in and added to the house, nineteen years ago, putting in a family room right below the in-law apartment, so that my sister could use more of the house as her own. It was permitted, mind you. EVERYTHING we do has its proper permits attached, well, because I try to follow the law. That's why I went through the zoning board, posted my big yellow signs for THREE weeks, not two. Made sure I was in the yard often enough so neighbors could ask me questions. People smiled and waved, as always.
And signed a petition behind my back. Wrote letters about how some young man lived TWO Years below the main part of the house, renting or something illegally. I pointed out that this was my son. He didn't pay rent.
Anyway, the commission had to deny me my dream. I cannot work outside the home like other people. I have legs that collapse with shooting pains that go up into my head--spinal cord injury from the past. Surgery kept me walking, but there was collateral long-run damage.
No one cared. Not even the four neighbors who knew it was my son, who knew why we had an in-family apartment, who knew I left for a year and a half to get over my daughter's death (and came back 12 years ago), who knew about my back and disability. Not the neighbor who told the zoning board that my forsythia hedge should be torn down, but I need to leave the lilacs for her, because I let her cut them every year. She told them I have a way with flowers. But I shouldn't have workshops. I was destroying the neighborhood, they said.
It seems to me, this paranoia, never talk in person mentality has done the destroying already. I bring bread to my neighbors, and let them cut my flowers. I give my candy at Halloween. Compliment the moms on their babies. But I am the bohemian hippy I guess... the spinster on the corner. I don't know. I know only that I cannot teach my workshops.
I never meant to instill fear in my neighbors. Nor turn the area into a commerce zone. The board calmed the neighbors down several times. Four of the commission never looked up except when I spoke. And they smiled at me, but the damage was done.
I think I'll work on flowers in the back yard this year, away from the joggers and the smiling faces that mask fears that only they can describe. For now? For today and perhaps tomorrow, too, I mourn the myth that I believed about my little corner of paradise. I am angry. I am hurt. I am sad, however, beyond belief.
The forsythia were torn down today, something we were going to do this year anyway. topsoil arrives tomorrow. We may spray on some lawn, as they do around the neighborhood. Don't know. But the terrible hazard of yellow on the corner is gone. One less thing to be hurled at my head, by neighbors who were never taught to simply talk when they think there might be a problem. Modern life in suburbia. I would like to leave here, go to my central Pa, to the farmlands there, and the areas where people are allowed to make a living from their home--and have cars in their driveway to boot.
And I will rise. I always do. I have a studio now and I will use it. I'll share it with my friends, a few at a time. We wouldn't want the neighbors to talk!
Yes, indeed, I am a subversive. We moved in and added to the house, nineteen years ago, putting in a family room right below the in-law apartment, so that my sister could use more of the house as her own. It was permitted, mind you. EVERYTHING we do has its proper permits attached, well, because I try to follow the law. That's why I went through the zoning board, posted my big yellow signs for THREE weeks, not two. Made sure I was in the yard often enough so neighbors could ask me questions. People smiled and waved, as always.
And signed a petition behind my back. Wrote letters about how some young man lived TWO Years below the main part of the house, renting or something illegally. I pointed out that this was my son. He didn't pay rent.
Anyway, the commission had to deny me my dream. I cannot work outside the home like other people. I have legs that collapse with shooting pains that go up into my head--spinal cord injury from the past. Surgery kept me walking, but there was collateral long-run damage.
No one cared. Not even the four neighbors who knew it was my son, who knew why we had an in-family apartment, who knew I left for a year and a half to get over my daughter's death (and came back 12 years ago), who knew about my back and disability. Not the neighbor who told the zoning board that my forsythia hedge should be torn down, but I need to leave the lilacs for her, because I let her cut them every year. She told them I have a way with flowers. But I shouldn't have workshops. I was destroying the neighborhood, they said.
It seems to me, this paranoia, never talk in person mentality has done the destroying already. I bring bread to my neighbors, and let them cut my flowers. I give my candy at Halloween. Compliment the moms on their babies. But I am the bohemian hippy I guess... the spinster on the corner. I don't know. I know only that I cannot teach my workshops.
I never meant to instill fear in my neighbors. Nor turn the area into a commerce zone. The board calmed the neighbors down several times. Four of the commission never looked up except when I spoke. And they smiled at me, but the damage was done.
I think I'll work on flowers in the back yard this year, away from the joggers and the smiling faces that mask fears that only they can describe. For now? For today and perhaps tomorrow, too, I mourn the myth that I believed about my little corner of paradise. I am angry. I am hurt. I am sad, however, beyond belief.
The forsythia were torn down today, something we were going to do this year anyway. topsoil arrives tomorrow. We may spray on some lawn, as they do around the neighborhood. Don't know. But the terrible hazard of yellow on the corner is gone. One less thing to be hurled at my head, by neighbors who were never taught to simply talk when they think there might be a problem. Modern life in suburbia. I would like to leave here, go to my central Pa, to the farmlands there, and the areas where people are allowed to make a living from their home--and have cars in their driveway to boot.
And I will rise. I always do. I have a studio now and I will use it. I'll share it with my friends, a few at a time. We wouldn't want the neighbors to talk!
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