Mayor McCheese?

Late one evening, St. Pauli Girl and I were sitting in our courtyard enjoying a cocktail when we noticed a light reflecting off the side of the house. It disappeared then came back. The courtyard is surrounded by a five foot high brick wall, so we couldn't see beyond it without standing up. Having sat out there on many a night, I knew it couldn't be the headlights of a car.

"What's that light?" I asked. "Is that a flashlight?"

Then we heard a grunt.

"That sounded like an animal," I said.

"Yeah but they don't normally carry flashlights."

I pushed my wrought iron chair back dragging the legs along the bricks trying to make as much noise as possible.

"Hello?" I called out as I walked to the brick wall.

I peered out out over the wall and saw a scruffy man in a white t-shirt, grey shorts and sandals and using his cell phone as a flashlight.

"Hello, can I help you?" I yelled out trying to be firm and civil

He said something, but I couldn't understand it. He stood still staring at his phone.

"Time to get serious," I thought.

"Hey! What are you doing on my lawn?" I said in the deepest foreboding drill seargant voice I could muster.

"I'm looking for my wife," he snapped back as he resumed looking at his phone.

"Not good enough. What are you doing on my property?" I demanded.

I turned to look at St. Pauli Girl to tell her to get ready to call 911, but she was gone. Then I saw the front porch light come on. I quickly ran into the house and to the front door. I came out into the front yard and saw St. Pauli Girl talking to the stranger. I ran toward them as St. Pauli Girl walked back toward the garage.

"Marcellus Wallace, I live three houses down." the stranger said as he held out his hand to me. (Names have been changed to protect the innocent and not so innocent.)

I introduced myself and shook his hand.

"Just looking for my wife," he said. "So you bought the De La Hoya house?"

"What?" I asked while still trying to grasp how this weird situation had now become a normal conservation. "I didn't know the house had a name."

"They were the previous owners," he said smirking.

At this point I noticed his wobbly legs as St. Pauli Girl came back from the garage.

"Well she's not in the garage," she said. "Did you meet Mr. Wallace? He said he saw his wife walk up here."

"Yeah, I was concerned," he said. "She was pretty drunk, and I'm just trying to get her home safely."

"I don't think so," I said, "we've been out here all night and haven't seen or heard a thing."

"Hmmm, maybe next door."

We watched him stumble across the driveway into the neighbor's yard.

"I wonder who's drunker, him or his wife," I said as we walked back to the courtyard.

"You know who that was don't you?"

"No."

"That was the ex-mayor."

"What? Really?" I asked.

"Yeah, can't remember when exactly but I guess before you moved to the Great Republic of Texas."

We resumed our cocktails when about ten minutes later, we saw the same light flashing on the house. We walked back out to see Marcellus walking up our driveway again.

"She's not here," I yelled. "We would have seen her."

"Just let me check your garage."

St. Pauli Girl walked through the garage and told him the same thing.

Marcellus threw up his hands and walked down the driveway and back to the street. He weaved badly in and out of the street. We stood and watched him stumble up and down the street a couple of times.

"Do you think we should call the police?" St. Pauli Girl asked.

"I'm torn between not wanting to stay up all night getting interviewed by the police and being awakened by his cell phone flashlight shining in our bedroom window. If we see him come by again before we call it a night, we'll call the police."

We sat down and quietly contemplated the incident for a few minutes.

I finally broke the silence. "You know, considering this is Texas, it's amazing and lucky that we were both unarmed."

We didn't see him again the rest of the night.

Several weeks later, St. Pauli Girl called me at work to tell me the dogs had escaped from the backyard. Both the sidegate and back gate were wide open, and I failed to notice when I let the dogs out.

"Do you think the mayor was looking for his wife again?" St. Pauli Girl asked.

(The dogs returned safely.)

Freedom's Just Another Word for...

Several years ago, my brother told me about a colleague that he golfed with. One day after the colleague relieved himself in the woods, he came out and told my brother, "You know, if I couldn't piss in the woods, I'd give up golf completely."

Sure, when nature literally calls and you're in the middle of nowhere, you do what you have to do. But personally I'm more worried about my reaction if a rattlesnake or copperhead slithers up while I'm doing my business rather than embracing the act as some sort of freedom loving, rapturous experience. As time has gone on, I am apparently in the minority.

Back when we lived almost in the country, yet still in a housing development of which we were the last house bordering a somewhat less prosperous development, I walked out to the backyard one day to mow the lawn. I looked up across the chain link fence and saw our neighbor relieving himself in his backyard. Stunned, I didn't know what to do so I just waved. He waved back, sort of. In his defense, he may have not had indoor plumbing, but I doubt it.

A few years later, I was at a friend's house where a big group of mostly guys gathered to brew beer. Homebrewing is one of those hobbies that's best enjoyed while drinking beer. And since it takes about five hours, nature will undoubtedly call. Luckily this house had indoor plumbing; I would know because I used it. But then I noticed the other guys had some sort of aversion to walking twenty feet to the house and the bathroom, because they would just stand by the side of the garage and let it rip.

I tried to figure out why they couldn't take the extra two minutes to walk to the house. What would they miss? Heck, they could even take their beer with them into the bathroom if they wanted. I finally decided that it was some sort of bonding experience. By the garage, they were close enough that you could cheer or shout encouragement if you wanted. Or maybe they were acting like a pack of dogs where once one dog marked his spot, all the rest had to do the same on the same spot. I never did bond with them.

A couple of months ago, St. Pauli Girl and I sat on the front porch late at night in the dark watching some seldom seen rain actually fall in our neighborhood. After awhile, our next door neighbor pulled up in his pickup truck. He has an interesting relationship with the old widow across the street in that he mows her lawn, stores his motorcycle in her garage and often parks his truck in her driveway.

He threw his truck in reverse and carefully backed into her driveway. We gasped as the truck headed diagonally across the driveway and toward a tree. He stopped just in time, straightened it out and successfully parked. He stayed in the truck for a few minutes with the lights still on. Then he got out in the rain, went to the side of the garage and proceeded to relieve himself in her front yard. He then climbed back in the truck, turned off the lights, and we never saw him come back out. We assumed he slept in the truck.

"We really need to move out of this neighborhood," we both said in unison.

I wondered if my brother still played golf with that colleague. I kind of doubt it after so many years and moves. But if my brother ever sees him again, I hope he tells the colleague that he's a prophet. At least in my book.

Neighborhood Watch

If you follow the news at all (or maybe even if you don't), you've no doubt heard countless stories about the government keeping tabs on your emails, web surfing habits and how many times a day you go to the bathroom. As disturbing as that may be, it should come as no surprise that the government is capable of turning into a James Bond villain. And similarly, most of us have more to fear from ordinary people than super villains.

I have been working from home for twelve years now. Most of that time has been spent working in rooms without a view. However, I am now set up with an office in the front of the house and as we remodel, said office has no curtains. Hence, anything that happens outside distracts me or captures my attention. It recently occurred to me that I know way too much about the neighborhood and can tell time by what is happening outside. And because my job regularly requires me to work nights, I have quite a timeline.

I know that someone across the street works the graveyard shift leaving the house about 1:00 a.m., returning for lunch at 5:30 and then leaving again at 6:30 a.m. Shortly after, the first dogwalker passes by in the dark. After sunrise, more dogwalkers come by including the woman in the black yoga pants and her hair pulled back so tight, it wrenches a permanent scowl on her face. She is followed by an older woman walking her terrier. This woman wears one of those hunting caps with ear flaps, even in July.

At about 7:45 a.m., the high school neighbors take off to school in their cars. One next door neighbor leaves for work about the same time. I always see him because he parks his car in other people's driveways instead of his own. The father across the street leaves for work at 8:30. A hipster doofus with long blond hair makes his way to the corner 7-11 for his morning Big Gulp. He'll make a return trip in the afternoon. If it's Monday, the local grocery store catering truck delivers groceries to the retired woman across the street. On Thursdays, her cleaning lady comes at 10:00.

At 11:00, two different women jog past. Sometimes one of them will be jogging with her boyfriend in which case they race to the stop sign. He usually wins, but I bet she lets him. The afternoon is a little slower especially in the summer. A few bikers will go by including a senior citizen dressed in button down shirt, nice slacks and helmet. And he must ride for at least an hour up and down the street. The mailperson comes by at 4:00.

But I recognize everyone and can spot the door-to-door salespeople. I know which cars should be on the street, which shouldn't and make sure the cars driving too slowly keep moving on.

St. Pauli Girl and I spend most nights on the back porch for happy hour during warm weather. A few weeks ago, a thunderstorm broke out, and we were forced inside where we sat in our breakfast nook by the front door. We watched the rain and lightning while sipping on our wine. St. Pauli Girl pointed to a house across the street where a couple of teenagers embraced on the front porch. A minute later, the girl looked up and moved in for the kiss which quickly turned into a heated makeout session.

St. Pauli Girl and I whooped and cheered them on. We started to give advice which they couldn't possibly hear. The girl seemed to be the aggressor as she moved her hands under his shirt, and he stood passively with his arms barely grazing her side.

“He needs to go for the butt grab,” I said. “He's standing there like this happens to him all the time.”

“Maybe it does,” St. Pauli Girl said.

“Regardless, he needs to seize the moment.”

After another minute or so, his hands finally slid slowly down her back and pulled her tight.

“Yes! The two-handed butt grab!” I cheered.

St. Pauli Girl and I high-fived each other and applauded as the kiss finally broke up.

In short, people should worry less about the government and more about their creepy neighbors.

Tough Neighborhood HOA

Texas likes to brag about how friendly its people are and for the most part, it's true. I remember the first time I ever came to Texas and anytime I walked into a store, I received a warm friendly greeting. That was very weird to me, and of course I ruined it by always responding, “What's it to you?” and flipping the clerk off for good measure. (I lived in Boston at the time.)

But then on occasion you run into someone who is only friendly in the sense that well, at least he didn't shoot me:

We spent last week at our vacation house in the Hill Country, which is actually just a nice way of saying we currently have two mortgages. As luck would have it, potential buyers came to look at our house. We left for about an hour, but when we came back, they were still there, so we parked on a side road to wait.

After about twenty minutes, a white pickup passed us. The driver slowly made several u-turns up and down the road before finally coming up beside us. I rolled down my window and smiled at our friendly neighbor.

Or not. The man, whom I’ll call Vince, rolled down his window as his truck came to a stop. “May I ask what you’re doing here?” he asked, eyes narrow with suspicion.

“Oh, we're just staking out our own house over there,” I said, pointing to our house. “It’s for sale, and we’re waiting for some prospective buyers to leave.”

Vince shook his head. “Jesus, what’s so wrong with that house that it goes on the market every two years?”

“What? Oh. Well, it was on the market for a while before us, but we've lived there for four years.”

“No, you haven't,” Vince said. “One and half, maybe two years max.”

I glanced at St. Pauli Girl who was biting her lip and turning her face away. I think her shoulders started to shake up and down, just a little.

“Um, no, we bought it in March of 2009. So it's pretty much exactly four years we’ve lived here.”

“No, you haven’t. You haven't been there that long.”

St. Pauli Girl leaned over to interrupt. “We moved in March 2009. Four years ago.”

He dropped that argument and moved on to his next one. “Do you mind telling me how much you're asking?” he said.

“No, not at all. It's all over the internet. Two-hundred ten thousand.”

Vince closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shook his head slowly as if he were getting a headache. “It’s people like you who are ruining this neighborhood.”

I misunderstood his meaning, I guess, and frowned. “We've studied the market quite a bit, and it’s comparably priced for this area.”

“No! You’re destroying our property values. You should be asking four fifty!”

“Excuse me?”

“How many square feet you got?”

“Thirty-six hundred.”

“Well, I got nineteen hundred and I'd be asking three fifty for my house if it were for sale. Don't ruin it for everyone,” Vince said slapping his left hand on the steering wheel for emphasis.

I was starting to get irritated. I said, “You know that house down the road on the corner on five acres that just sold? It sat empty for two years listed at two-sixty. They had to remodel and drop the price to sell it.”

“That house was a piece of crap. I wouldn't board my ex-wife there.”

“Your house must be very nice.”

“Flawless. But I gotta keep constant guard with those long-hairs living out back behind me. Last week the sheriff hauled one off. Sent him back to the clink because he broke his probation.”

“Yeah, there are people at the end of our street who had the sheriff pay them a visit too,” I said, talking about what we call the “meth house.”

“There's too many no-gooders around here. That's why I carry a gun.”

“Good idea,” I said. That's when I realized we hadn't seen his right hand; it was more than likely resting on a gun in the seat beside him. I flashed him a bright smile and put the car in drive. “Thanks for keeping the neighborhood safe.”

“Well, good luck with your sale,” Vince said, snorting as he drove off.

Too bad it took us four two years to meet Vince. But despite destroying the neighborhood property values, I'm glad we're no longer living between the meth house and neighborhood militia.

Smoking the Neighbors Out

We’ve lived here three years, and we met one of our next door neighbors for the first time last week. It’s great that we finally know each others’ names, but it’s kind of disappointing that we almost burned down their house to get acquainted.

I have previously written about our experiences adjusting to country living, especially the necessity of having to burn things. By now we should have become old pros, having successfully completed several burns of dead brush over the years. We can easily knock out a large burn pile in 1 to 2 hours.

The previous owners of our property planted a lot of trees and shrubs, which is usually aesthetically pleasing in the spring and summer. But as a result of several years of drought, a lot of trees, shrubs, and vines have died. The dead stuff is not so appealing. We’ve spent the last six months pulling up dead trees and bushes, creating not one but two massive burn piles.

The second burn pile was in our front yard and had grown to a good 7 feet high by 20 feet in diameter. With the hot, dry season just around the corner and knowing a new burn ban was imminent, we decided it was time to get ‘er done. I followed protocol and called the sheriff’s office to let them know we’d be burning that afternoon. Fine, they said.

We proceeded in our usual manner, with me watering the ground around the pile and St. Pauli Girl sprinkling on some diesel fuel and lighting the pile. I stood to the side by our neighbor’s fence with the hose, watering more ground just as a precaution.

Let me point out here and now that dead wood, brush, and leaves burn really fast. I mean really, really fast.
As usual the flames quickly roared through the burn pile, spouting up a good 12 to 15 feet in the air. I started to back away as the familiar intense heat came at me. Before I knew it, I was protecting myself behind a tree, well away from the huge fire. Although it was a particularly hot day, everything was going as expected.

Then the wind kicked up, blowing the flames north. At that point St. Pauli Girl made the crucial decision to pick up the hose and move it away from the fire. She later said she was afraid it might melt. Suddenly, a huge gust of wind came, pushing the flames even higher and further away from the pile. I heard a cracking, then a small explosion sound. I looked up into the big oak tree I was standing behind that was a good 30 feet north of the burn pile and watched in horror as clusters of leaves burst into flames.

"The tree’s on fire," I yelled to St. Pauli Girl, pointing.

She looked up and immediately turned the hose on it. The wind was persistent, and the flames showed no sign of dying anytime soon. More branches burst into flames.

"Go call 911!" St. Pauli Girl yelled, jerking at the hose to get closer to the tree.

I ran back to the house to retrieve my phone. I couldn’t believe we were about to torch our yard and maybe even the whole neighborhood. But once I grabbed the phone, I hesitated. Then I made a tactical decision: I would to wait just a few seconds to see if the burning tree had gotten worse. I figured if I called too soon, the fire department might show up after we had everything under control, only to yell at us. Whereas if the fire had spread out of control, the tree and most of our yard would already be in the ashes of history anyway, regardless if I called right then or waited 30 seconds.

I ran back to the fire to see that the main fire had indeed calmed down as a result of the dying wind, and the tree was now only charred and dripping. St. Pauli Girl continued to spray water into the branches. The main burn pile had returned to its usual normal "boring" status.

A few minutes later, our neighbor whom we’d never met wandered out toward us. "Almost got us," she said.
I looked up at her tree which hadn’t been touched. I wanted to say we had it under control but I just shrugged instead.

"I could feel the heat all the way on my back porch," she continued. (Her back porch is probably a hundred yards away.)

We chatted with her for several minutes while keeping a careful eye on the fire. We had already decided to not add any more brush to it, and to save burning pile #2 for another day.

After she left, I asked St. Pauli Girl, "Do you think she really felt the heat back there?"

"No. I think she heard me yell at you to call 911."

So other than our own tree, there was no collateral damage, and we were saved the humiliation of dealing with lectures from the fire department and sheriff’s office. But we’ll probably not volunteer at the annual homeowner’s association cookout this year.

Guns Make Great Neighbors

We live between two very different neighbors:

Neighbor A: Just finished building a large work shed that includes a concrete foundation. He has several trashed Cadillacs, a lopsided pop-up camper, and assorted industrial equipment decorating his backyard. Sometimes at dusk he comes out wearing nothing but shorts and practices archery.

Neighbor B: Mild mannered, middle-aged insurance salesman. He has a swimming pool, a hot tub, and a lighted tennis court in his backyard. He mows his lawn fully dressed and hosts tennis matches two nights a week.

Recently, a situation called for the neighborly assistance of someone with a gun. Guess which neighbor came running shirtless with a shotgun in his hands?

(Hint: We live in Texas.)

Give up? The correct answer is Neighbor B, the insurance salesman. (The hint should have just made you realized that we all have guns. Well, almost all.)

But I am jumping ahead. We have noticed an excessive amount of skunk activity in the neighborhood this spring. By notice, I mean we can smell their trails after they’ve been running around the yard all night. So St. Pauli Girl went and bought a skunk trap, which is a steel box that could accommodate maybe two hamsters comfortably. Of course the trap had to be small enough so the skunk couldn’t lift its tail after it had been caught, but I had a hard time believing a skunk would even try to enter. Regardless, we were told a piece of bacon would make the trap very attractive. (It worked, at least for me.)

We set the trap and came out the next morning anxious to see what we caught. The empty trap lay on its side, bacon-less. We had been the victims of a “dine and dash.”

After that, we went several weeks without a skunk scent so we stopped worrying about it. Then one afternoon St. Pauli Girl and I were relaxing with a cold beer on the front lawn after a long day of yard work. I heard the Neighbor B’s Labradors barking up a storm. I didn’t say anything because I thought they might be eating one of our chickens, and I didn’t want to upset St. Pauli Girl.

The labs suddenly approached their fence and chased a little ball of black and white fur onto our property. I looked down to make sure it wasn’t Yogi, our black and white dog who happens to look very much like Pepe Le Pew. No, Yogi was snoozing soundly at our feet.

“Skunk!” I yelled. This woke up Yogi, so I chased him into the house so that A) he wouldn’t chase the skunk, B) the skunk wouldn’t chase him/try to mate with him, and C) he wouldn’t get shot.

We then ran toward the skunk as it skittered about before slipping out under the front gate. Another neighbor whom we’ll call Neighbor C approached and said, “There’s a skunk in your yard.”

“Yes, we know,” St. Pauli Girl said. “Should I get the skunk trap?”

“Why? Bill there’s got a gun.”

Seconds later, our shirtless insurance agent, Neighbor B, came a-runnin’ with his shotgun in hand. “He’s in your yard!” he shouted.

“What are you saying? Are you going to sue us?” I asked. (With three attorneys in the family, that’s always my first question.) “So he’s our responsibility now?”

“No, he went out the gate,” St. Pauli Girl said.

Bill and Neighbor C peered into the culvert that ran beneath our driveway next to the street.

“There he is,” Neighbor C said. “He’s hunkered down at the other end.”

Bill raced to the opposite side and pointed his gun into the culvert.

“Fire in the hole!” I yelled as the gun flashed and went boom.

“What was that for?” Bill asked, shotgun smokin’.

“I don’t know. They say that in all the war movies.”

We watched and waited but nothing happened. It was unlikely the skunk had been hit by the blind shot, and he certainly hadn’t run out. I debated whether or not to go fetch Neighbor A with his bow and arrow.

“There he goes,” Neighbor C shouted, pointing at the other end of the culvert.

Bill spun around and fired. The skunk dropped to the ground but not before lifting his tail and spraying the ground around him in one final act of vengeance. Sort of an “I’ll see you in hell!” kind of farewell, if you will.

We boxed up the carcass and gave it to the Neighbor C, the largest landowner, so he could leave it somewhere far away for the vultures. Then we stood around and chatted for a while, congratulating each other on our great collaborative hunt and kill. I felt a real bond with our neighbors that evening. But I also realized I should never wander into their backyards uninvited.

Sometimes it just takes a gun to bring people together. Or a skunk.