brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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When I was growing up, our next-door neighbor's dogs spent most of their day in a pen on the side of their house. And they barked. Nonstop. Two things my father did daily were work in his study and nap. Both his study and bedroom were on the side of the house closest to the barking dogs.
My father never complained to our neighbors. Not once. He took a long view of the situation: One day the dogs would die and in the meantime his friendship with the neighbors would remain untarnished. He was right. The friendship between our two families outlasted the dogs and continues to this day. In fact, our neighbors' son spoke at my father's memorial service and the wife, a registered nurse, was one of the reasons we felt comfortable with our mother remaining in the house after his death. She kept an eye on my mother and popped in regularly. A resident on my block — let's call him Stephen — could learn a few lessons from my father's example. Stephen recently initiated a kerfuffle over trash left in front of a house several days before pickup. The inhabitant of that house — let’s call her Susie — had moved out over the weekend, as was obvious from the SOLD sign in front of the house. We live directly next door and thought nothing of it. Even the city makes concessions for move-out situations, we discovered later. But apparently Stephen, who lives on the opposite side of the street many doors down, found the refuse objectionable enough to make a fuss on Facebook, publicly embarrassing not only Susie, who had rented the house, but the owners, longtime neighbors and good friends — let’s call them Mark and Alice — who had moved out of state a few years prior. Steven went so far as to compare the scene to a “Detroit-style eviction,” raising hackles with his coded language. I understand the importance of following rules for the benefit of the neighborhood as a whole and perhaps even reporting repeated violations. But I also believe in extending empathy and compassion when circumstances warrant it. This is where Stephen and I part ways. How do I know he didn’t care about Susie’s particular situation? Because he said so. When Alice told him, on Facebook, how hard Susie had worked to move out by the agreed-upon date, he replied, “I don’t care how hard she worked.” Eventually Susie called the city for a special trash removal, to the tune of $100. She offered, via Facebook, to cancel the pickup and donate the money instead to a charity of Stephen’s choosing in his name. He didn’t respond. The trash is long gone from the block, but what remains is the stench of mean spiritedness generated by the attitude and actions of one person. I suspect in time he'll capitalize in full on his shortsighted investment in ill will. In the meantime, I'll take the long view and give him what my father would have called a mental demerit.
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Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |