The Unwelcome New Neighbor

My neighbors across the street just called to me, "Carol, watch your lawn because we have a gopher," pointing to the patch of dirt which has newly appeared in their front lawn. They said they'd gladly send him over. I don't want him, of course, but I'm pretty sure if he wants to come he will dig right through under the street.

Stuff like this is a bit distressing for me. I mean, Ron--that's the male half of the Contas (across-the-street neighbors)--should just kill the thing. Hose down the hole, pitch fork, trap, something. Maybe a tiny bit of dynamite? (Joking.) Or a good cat who likes gophers. Whatever. My point of view is this: it would be a lot easier for him to take care of it than for me to have to take care of it. Could I be wrong? I just hope Jan Conta is not environmentally opposed to killing gophers. She might be, you know.

This whole gopher thing could turn out to be much worse than the raccoons who used to traipse across my yard on their way to their nest under Phil Jones' front porch. And he did set traps for them, using peanut butter sandwiches for bait. Caught a few cats and finally the baby raccoon but never the big guys. They would slip in, grab the sandwich, and slip out again.

The Joneses moved a few years ago, and I haven't talked to the Bakers, who bought Phil Jones' house, about raccoons, which may mean they moved, too--the raccoons. At least, I don't see them any more, and I haven't seen evidence of them since I found such evidence (and mighty nasty evidence at that) on my upstairs deck. Rubber gloves, plastic bag, water, bleach, scrubbing sponge later I got rid of the evidence, and in time the smell was gone, too .

But a gopher. I think my sons would have to come over and help me. I know they watched their dad, probably helped him, when he went after the gophers at 722. It seemed quite a little adventure, one I was always glad to see the end of. I liked knowing the place was ours. You know, ours.

At this house, besides the raccoons, we've had squirrels in the crawl space, red-shafted flickers pecking holes in the siding, carpenter ants wherever (but when they began congregating in the pantry, I took drastic and very expensive action), marauding visits from neighborhood cats--they dug up my flowers and one year ate my baby finches--and this year a nest of crows. But I've written enough about them, except, I wonder if crows eat gophers.

Oh well. I guess it's all part of home ownership and lawn care. And no one ever said such things would always be pleasant. For now, I'll just hope Ron takes care of the problem. Maybe I should encourage him.

Just a House

If such a thing is possible, I knew every corner and cranny in that house. Big rooms, and small rooms stuck on off of bigger rooms; an upstairs deck—of all things (the 1940s)—which was a sometime retreat for me, where I could look out to the ocean or across all the rooftops of the neighborhood; floors that sloped, and hiding places for stuff I didn’t want my mother to know I had, like a pack of cigarettes, among other things, Parliaments. I don’t think they make those any more. I didn’t smoke them, don’t even remember how I got them. One day I flushed them all down the toilet.

But the house, 609 Ashland Avenue: set up on a hill, palm tree in the front yard, noticeable. It’s the house where I grew up, and it is dear in my memory. My parents often talked about moving while we lived there—the house was big and old with nothing modern and work-saving about it. But we kids wouldn’t hear of moving. We had our friends, you know, and our schools, and we were—or I was—probably afraid of change. Besides, we loved the old house. So they waited until we were all gone, sold it, and moved away.

My heart broke a little then and as I watched its decline. I guess I was the only one who lived nearby. The roof deteriorated and never saw repair. The yard wasn’t kept up. The flower garden my mother took great pride in with her gladiolus and roses, the fruit trees and strawberry plants my dad saw to—all were neglected and fell to ruin. Eventually the owner tore the place down and built an apartment house, ugly faux Spanish, quite out of place in that somewhat Victorian neighborhood.

I thought about that house yesterday as I drove by 722 No Georgia, the house my children grew up in and loved. They still write emails about it to one another, describing its corners and crannies, reaffirming their sense of it as the “best house possible” for growing up.

Yesterday I could see that it is not looking good. A huge travel trailer sits in the front yard, on the property line next to Nickels’ place, and in front of the trailer a wreck of a car, 1956 Pontiac, with a hand-written for sale sign taped to the windshield. On the other side of the house, just beyond the garage wall, where the iris used to grow, there is nothing but junk and at least four garbage cans, not all upright. The pasture was sold off a few years ago, and now a wood fence separates the two properties that had been one. Now, what was pasture bears a tall house and a barn-like building which no doubt block the view from the big picture windows in the living room at 722. I drove around the back and couldn’t see our house through the new house and barn.

But that’s the thing. It is no longer our house, and so what has become of it is no longer our business and should not concern me. It’s not as if we can, any of us, go back. That is not how this life works. Besides, I don’t know but what the present occupants are building memories in 722 No Georgia as dear as ours, though I doubt it.

I think there is such a thing as ownership that goes beyond actual ownership. The place will always be ours in that sense, and that is why I feel such disappointment about it, as I did about 609. It ought to be dear to anyone living there. It ought to be cared for. How dare they let it go? But, you say, it’s just a house, a place. Okay, I say, and thank goodness we had it, but clearly it is more than just a place to our family. Thank goodness, again, that what we did there and what we learned there we can always keep, wherever we are.

How About a Burger?

Have you eaten at Wendy’s lately? And how was it?

I only ask because I cannot eat there. Not that I popped in weekly, but that once in a while I could go there for a decent burger or some chili. Now, it's clear to me: I can’t pop in at all.

It’s the food, of course. It’s just not good anymore, and the level of concern on the part of employees—those people who slap together the burgers and such—seems to have slid downward also. Like your lettuce leaf might actually be on the bun, or it might not, and if you ask for no ketchup on your hamburger you might get no ketchup, and, then again, you might not. I know these things because I did eat at Wendy’s, once last year and once this year. But no more. I'm done.

I blame death. No, this isn’t The Widow’s Chronicle. It’s just me, Carol, griping, grieving, maybe, for Dave Thomas, at whose death Wendy’s began its decline and its cutbacks on quality and quantity. I mean, can those square hamburger patties get any thinner? The last time I ordered a single, the beef patty had a hole in it, you know, an area right about in the center where there was no meat, as in "Where's the beef?"

More's the pity, I say, because Wendy's used to be kind of good, but what you get now is just plain old shoddy fare and a lousy eating out experience. Too bad.

My point? I don’t know. Maybe it is about death. Sorry.

A Small Matter

Have you had the experience of feeling someone's eyes on you? You know, you're sitting in church or where ever and you become aware that someone is looking at you, even though you cannot see that person. So you turn, and usually to the very person, and see, unless the person can look away quickly enough, that yes indeed someone has been looking at you.

How does this happen? Is there something sent through the air, some kind of electrical charge from the eyes? And how does it find its way to exactly you?

I cannot think I am the only person who has had this experience. I saw it happen today, in reverse. Someone came into the chapel where I sat. He was clear across the room and could not see me. I watched him enter and, after he sat down, still kept my eyes on him. In a few seconds he turned and looked at me. He did not look around the room but directly at me, although we do not know each other. I quickly turned away, hoping he did not catch me looking at him. Has such a thing happened to you?

I believe this may be some kind of physical phenomenon (physical, as in physics) and wonder if it has a name.