Quite contrary
Our lot in Smallville is about 4.5 acres. It used to be five, but the previous owner sold off a half-acre to her father, who prepped the lot and put a triple wide trailer on it. It’s a nice little place, 1800 square feet or so, and very well maintained. The current resident, the son of the man who owns the lot, is quiet and keeps to himself. Other than a propensity for walking around mostly naked (he’s old and, um, pretty stout), he’s a perfect neighbor.
A few weeks ago, while I was out in the back yard building the chicken coop, the owner of that lot stopped by to cut the grass. He’s about as old as God, but still likes to get out and keep active. I hope I’m that spry when I’m pushing ninety. When he finished with grass, he put the riding mower away, rested for a bit on the glider in the back yard, then moseyed over to see me.
And told me words I didn’t want to hear: he was putting the place up for sale.
We chatted a bit more (he told me he’d try to get me some good neighbors, and that I should pray about it) and he left. I raced inside to tell Robyn, and we fretted about it for a bit. We talked about how we’d like to buy the place and sell the house off it, but really, we’d lose our asses if we did something like that. Mostly we were concerned about what kind of neighbors we’d get.
The next week, a for sale sign went up in the front yard. Time passed, and we didn’t ever see anyone showing interest in the house. We continued to talk non-seriously about buying it. Then, one day last week I got a call at work from Robyn.
“Someone’s looking at the house,” she hissed.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because I’m on the front porch, trying to eavesdrop. It’s two men.”
“Like gay guys? I wouldn’t mind having a nice quiet gay couple move in next door. We could bond over show tunes.”
“No, it looks more like a father and son. They look pretty interested. They’re dressed like yuppies. Like they’re going to buy it and rent it out to bad neighbors.”
We talked in this vein until the men left, then I had Robyn walk over and get the phone number off the for sale sign. I called the owner.
“Mister Cooper?” I asked when he answered.
“Yup.”
I told him my name, then to remind him I explained that I owned the property next door to him.
“My wife and I have been talking about maybe buying your house so we can get the property back, sell the house off it and use the land.”
I launched into my spiel about how I don’t like to play negotiating games, that if he’d just tell me what he was looking to get — not what he was asking, but what he’d take — I’d talk to Robyn and we could come to some sort of decision. He told me the asking price, then allowed that he’d probably take a little less.
It was still more than I expected.
“We’ve just been talking and, well, we’re a little concerned about the potential new neighbors,” I said. “We don’t want to get bad neighbors. You know, people who’d make all kinds of noise at all hours, run the place down, have kids running around everywhere screaming, and ignore our property lines.”
Like Mexicans.
I’m kidding. Robyn will tell you I love me some shock value humor. Seriously, that was a joke. I don’t really think that about Mexicans.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I tell you, I’ve had some people call that I hope don’t call me back.”
“I heard that,” I said, because it seemed like the right thing.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’ve had black neighbors before who were alright, but…you know?”
And there it was, out on the table like a big stinky turd. I sat in silence, not knowing what to say. Now, God knows I make my share of politically incorrect jokes based on stereotypes when I’m with Robyn (or very rarely on this site like I did above), but she knows I’m teasing for the shock value and I made it clear above that I was kidding around. Running into people who truly make (and believe) sweeping judgements about people because of their skin color always makes me sad.
There’s a potential good side to this. Without exception, every single instance of racism against black people in my adult life has come from an old white man. Maybe when that generation is gone we’ll be a step closer to minimizing it. Only fools believe it can be eradicated.
“Alrighty,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know about the price. I’ll talk it over with my wife, and you may be hearing back from us soon.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up.
Right now, we’re adopting a wait-and-see attitude. If we get good neighbors, great. If they’re not-so-good, I can always plant an evergreen hedge around the perimeter of their property, right?
I know someone out there is itching to post a preachy comment about how jokes like the one I made above are “part of the problem” of racism. Please see if you can refrain. Really, sometimes a joke is just a joke.
Speaking of property, let’s take a look around and see how things are going in Smallville.
One of two blueberry bushes I planted. Robyn and I have many arguments
about planting things. She always wants flowers planted, whereas I don’t want
to plant anything I’m not going to eat at some point.
Except roses, which she won’t let me have, because she’s evil.
The four trees below came from an online nursery that prides itself in having fast growing trees. I treated these trees like children when they got here, pampering them in pots indoors before planting them outside. They were FORTY DOLLARS EACH, easily the most expensive trees I’d ever bought. But that’s okay, because the nursery (you’ll have to figure out the name yourself) assured me they were the fastest growing trees I’d ever see.
Here’s what they look like now:
Apple one.
Apple two.
Peach one.
Peach two.
All the trees below came from Lowe’s, and cost SEVENTEEN DOLLARS each. I planted them, gave them a little water and fertilizer, and that was that.
Peach tree one.
It has one little peach, which looks to have survived the cold snap
a couple of weeks ago.
Peach tree two
Plum tree one.
Plum tree two.
Apple tree one.
Apple tree two.
Look, ma, a baby apple!
How ’bout them apples?
This apple tree is covered with them so far. If memory serves, they’re Fuji. Or Gala.
I don’t know if the Lowe’s trees are fast growing or not, but they seem happy. I’ll leave it up to you to make up your mind on which set of trees was the better deal.
Miss Mama likes nothing more than following us all over the property.
Any time we take a walk around the back forty, she tags along. If I’m working
out in the yard, she’s right there with me, rolling around in the dirt.
If we didn’t already have so many cats, I’d almost want to adopt her.
And here’s how my garden grows (so far) :
Corn
Green beans (pole beans)
Black beans
Eggplant
Maters
Onions (we planted 160. Heh)
Spinach
Dewy spinach, up close
Peppers (jalapeno). Green peppers are growing in that row, too.
Sugar snap peas
Squash (I think)
We’re still waiting to see okra, cukes, melons, more squash, and black-eyed peas. Those all like it hot, so it may be a while before they’re up.
I was on a weed jihad today, spraying Roundup (that’s right, greenies, Round-Up. From the Satan of all companies itself, Monsanto) in the ditch to kill the weeds there. When that was finished, I got out the brush killer and attacked the poison ivy that threatens our very existence. That. Shit. Is. Everywhere.
And I fucking HATE it.
Poison ivy, on the house. Uck.
And, because no entry would be complete without a visit with the girls…
Any time I’m near the fence Frick comes running, because I usually have worms.
If any of the chickens are going to be like pets, it’ll be Frick. He likes to be held and stroked.
What cock doesn’t, right?
And if I stand there a second, more come to see if I have treats.
if I wait long enough, almost everyone shows up.
The girls enjoy some shade under the hog-panel hoophouse I made for them.
Well now. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d type in this lifetime.
I took some leftover steak and baked potato out to the girls after
lunch this afternoon. Did you know chickens are omnivores, and love meat?
What’cha doin’ there, bub?
I really like the big version of this picture.
Something about the way the two in the background are in such sharp focus makes
it humorous to me. I dunno why.
Pardon me, do you have any more worms, sir?
Should my wife tell tales of me rooting around for hours on end in a pile of rotting leaves, looking for worms to give the chickens, she’s lying through her teeth and will probably go to hell.
This is Oscar, so-named because she looks like an ostrich.
She’s one of only three that got names.
Everyone loves steak and baked potato, don’t they?
To give you an idea of how entertaining (and dumb) chickens are, witness the video I shot while the girls were enjoying the leftover steak and baked tater. Any time a chicken thinks another chicken has something good to eat, they want to take it away. Never mind the fact that there are PILES of good-to-eat stuff right there for the taking. Of course, the first chicken is part of the problem too, because she always announces when she’s got something good to eat, thus getting the attention of the others.
Below, Oscar has gotten herself a bit of steak and some of the others want it.
Go, Oscar!
Now seriously. How could someone NOT want chickens around with that kind of entertainment going on all the time?
