The Noisy Neighbor Blues

For three days, as the slogan goes, life was good at Covenant Woods. Last night, it returned to normal. Sunday evening, after making a couple laps around the building, I stopped in the lobby to talk to Tony, who is a resident here, and Bev, who was working at the desk. The conversation soon turned to the subject of my next-door neighbor and her son.

I had been living at Covenant Woods for four years when the woman moved in next door. Both Corrine and Leila, the previous occupants of that apartment, were quiet neighbors. Richie, who lives next door on the other side, had quieted down, too. The nearly constant, always loud, drunken revelries he and William so enjoyed, and which always took place in Richie's apartment, seemed to have become a thing of the past. Oh, they still had an occasional pre-party before heading to Covenant Woods' Friday afternoon Happy Hour, but they were seldom rowdy after the sun went down. And Richie must have moved his TV away from the wall we share. It wasn't a bad neighborhood.

With the new neighbor came what must be a recording, or a slew of CDs on which some guy drones on and on about something, I'm not sure what. And I got to listen to them through the wall nearly every night.

I did my best to be patient. My view is, in a place such as Covenant Woods, we residents have to put up with each other, within reason, of course, from 8 a.m.until 10 or 10:30 p.m., certainly no later than 11 p.m. From 11 p.m. to 8 a.m. we need to think of each other. Not everyone is in bed by 11, but many folks are. We need to keep that in mind and be willing to adjust if our late-night activities make it difficult for a neighbor to sleep.

My new neighbor never turned the recordings off or even reduced the volume by 11, and seldom by midnight. A week or two after she moved in, I saw her in the hall and asked her to please turn it down. "You'll have to talk to my son. He's the one who listens to that stuff." I told her that wasn't my responsibility. She shot me a not-my-problem look and walked away.

 With that in mind, I turned to the night security man. On nights when the noise from next door kept me from sleeping, I'd call the desk and ask the security guy to ask the neighbor to quiet down. Some nights the response came within a few minutes, other nights there was no response at all. At the time, I thought a no-response meant that a more urgent matter had arisen - a medical emergency, perhaps.

At the time, the neighbor's son drove a Kia that had obviously been in an accident. The left side was bashed in, and the windows on the left side had been replaced with sheets of plastic. It was an ugly piece of junk, and its absence greatly improved the appearance of the parking lot. Its absence also improved my mood: if the car wasn't here, neither was the son. There were occasions when he was gone for two or three days. And every time it was gone for more than a day, I hoped he had found more a suitable residence for himself. But he always came back.

In December or January, I talked to Kerri, who is the business manager, about my neighbor and her son. Kerri talked to my neighbor, and the problem seemed to be solved. The following week, the neighbor apologized for bothering me. A week later, the son was back and unrepentant.

Since then, the neighbor has been told several times that her son is not allowed in the building at night. The son has been escorted to the door and told to leave a number of times. Two days later, heeeeee's back.

The son was here over the weekend, and he was his usual ignorant, inconsiderate self Friday and Saturday nights. Calling the security guy is often an exercise in futility. I found out along the way that when the security guy doesn't knock on the neighbor's door and tell the son to get out of the building, it's not because a more important situation requires his attention. It means he walked by the neighbor's apartment and maybe even stopped in the hallway for a minute to listen but didn't hear anything. If he doesn't hear anything, he can't do anything.

This was the gist of my conversation with Tony and Bev on Sunday. I told them I thought the son was in his mother's apartment, or had been when I went to take a ride. Bev looked ino the situation and told the neighbor her the son had to get out of the building. Five minutes after I got back to my apartment, a car stoppped in the parking lot and the neighbor's kid got in and left.

Three nights of blissful slumber followed. That does not mean the inconsiderate jerk stayed out of the building all three nights. I woke up at four Tuesday, not unusual for me, and could hear the familiar garbage on the tape playing softly in the neighbor's apartment. The same was true Wednesday morning when I got up at 5:30. On the other hand, nary a sound came from the neighbor's apartment those nights. I got into bed, relaxed, fell asleep quickly, and awoke feeling so very good, physically and emotionally.

It was back to abnormal last night. I could hear the tapes most of the evening, but they weren't loud enough to be heard in the hall. No use calling. They seemed louder to my ears when I got into bed at eleven. The reasons for that are the location of my bed - it's next to the wall between my apartment and the neighbor's - and my TV or the music I was listening to now being off.

I didn't bother calling security. It is unlikely the guy would hear the tapes as he stood in the hall. So I started yelling, "Turn it off!" He didn't. I yelled some more. And on and on we went. He turned it down a few times, and I yelled, "Turn it all the way off!" My experience with the son is, no matter how low he turns the volume, it will soon go back up. This went on until 12:15, when I yelled, "Turn the god-damned thing off, you asshole!" For whatever reason, he immediately turned it off. Maybe he just wanted me to talk dirty to him.

Three consecutive nights without hearing the tapes reminded me how nice it is to fall asleep without having to put up with that garbage playing on the other side of the wall. When I get upset and start yelling, my already stiff legs get noticeably stiffer and are usually still stiffer than usual in the morning. I go to sleep not feeling good about myself. I don't like having to yell; I worry that I'll wake up others. And I wake up feeling lousy: the legs are still a little stiff, and getting myself dressed is a bigger than normal challenge. And I don't feel good about myself and the way I behaved trying to get that guy to turn off his tapes.

All this because of a man who is not supposed to be in the building between 7 p.m. and 10 a.m.

The Heat is On

This is a few years old, but it still true of me and the Georgia summer.

The Heat is On

Day after day the high’s above ninety,

The humidity at one-forty-four.

I’d like to say it with class and nicety,

How I can’t take this stuff anymore.

But daily that old heat-index rises

And weakens my teeny vocabulary.

Heat kills the nice words, and my surmise is

What’s left will draw the constabulary.

I do try hard to be understanding

Of Mother Nature’s mysterious ways.

Yet, on these days when I’m out standing

In Old Sol’s searing, scorching, sultry rays,

I find it hard to keep a civil tongue,

And polite expression is impossible.

Within seconds, I have burst a lung

Shouting words and phrases reprehensible.

It has been a summer like no other

That this one old fellow can remember.

In case you’re wondering what I’d ’druther,

I am lusting now for November.

Notes from the Home - July, 16, 2017

The two laps around and through the Covenant Woods' parking lots and driveways on a hot July afternoon delivered more than expected. I eased the buggy out the door and on to the asphalt, where the temperature on a hot, sunny day is always twenty degrees higher than the surrounding area. A moment later, I saw a woman, a resident, coming in the opposite direction. We said "hello" and complained about the heat and humidity as we passed.

Not much of a conversation, but the woman spoke with a German accent, and that took me back to Myrna Drive in Bethel Park. It was a sunny, summer morning in 1975, I think. The occasion was a weekend celebration of Grandma's eightieth birthday, I think. In any event, Dad and I, and maybe brother Jim or brother Ed were at kitchen table. As we talked, Grandma wandered into the kitchen and began saying the nastiest things about Kaiser Willie.

Grandma was born in America, but her parents immigrated from Germany, and she grew up speaking both English and German. She spoke German at home, with relatives, and with her German-speaking friends. The church she grew up in conducted its services in German. Then came World War I, and speaking German in public was no longer a wise idea. Their church switched to having its services in English. If I remember correctly - I don't always - Grandma was born in 1895 and would have been nineteen when the war began in Europe and twenty-one when the United States formally entered the fray.

Neither Mom nor Aunt Jean learned to speak German. Well, Mom did pick up a little. She used an expression that began, Ach du liebe Zeit and went on for ten or twelve more words. Ach du liebe Zeit translates as "My goodness." An Internet search for "German expressions that begin with Ach du liebe Zeit" failed to turn up anything that looked at all like what Mom said. Or, maybe it did, and Mr. Monolingual here just passed it by. Mom also liked to say dummer Eisle, as in, "Tom, you dummer Eisle. Straighten up." By the time I realized Mom had been calling me a dumb ass, I'd already concluded that I often had been a dummer Eisle. No harm, no foul.

German didn't - POOF!! - disappear from Grandma's life. Most, if not all, of my Mom's relatives from Grandma's generation and older could speak German and very often did. As time went on, though, they moved away or passed away. Without opportunities to speak German, Grandma slowly lost the language. And with the language went her memories made while speaking German, and there were lots of them.

"I learned all my catechism in German. Now I can't even remember the Commandments," she said that morning in the kitchen. We laughed and told her that explained a lot. Now, forty years later, I can't imagine having so many memories, especially childhood memories of family times, in a language I no longer understand. Several women living here have German accents, wives of military men, I suppose. Gitta, my friend back in Ohio, speaks fluent German. And Russ can stumble around in it with what he remembers from German classes in high school and college. I bet if Grandma came for a visit she'd enjoy meeting them and conversing in the language she loved. But she'd have to ditch her halo and wings. Those things can intimidate mere mortals.

Attitude Problem

I am so lackadaisical.
And those few thoughts I have? Hairbrained.
An idiotic spectacle?
That's me, so lackadaisical
I'll scream and get hysterical,
Then claim my poor brain is strained.
I'm just so lackadaisical,
And my brain's filled with thoughts hairbrained.

Miss Parker's Wit and Wisdom

To bring life to an otherwise lifeless day, I hopped on the Internet and spent an hour with Dorothy Parker (1893-1967). The old girl had a lot to say, and she said it well. She brightened my day with observations such as these:

"Her big heart, as is so sadly often the case, did not inhabit a big bosom."

"What's the difference between an enzyme and a hormone? You can't hear an enzyme."

"The two most beautiful words in the English language are 'cheque enclosed.'"

"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."

"You can't teach an old dogma new tricks."

"If all the girls attending the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn't be at all surprised."

"Tell him I'm too fucking busy - or vice versa."

"Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone."

"The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue."

"Now, I know the things I know, and do the things I do, and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you."

"It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard."

"A hangover is the wrath of grapes."

"Money cannot buy health, but I'd settle for a diamond-studded wheelchair."

"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to."

"You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."

"Brevity is the soul of lingerie."

"All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends."

I knew Dorothy Parker coined the phrase, "Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses." I didn't realize, though, that she also came up with, "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy."

"Time doth flit; oh shit."

Notes from the Home - May 30, 2017

It has been anything but a quiet week in the old-folks home. Perhaps it was quiet in other areas of the establishment, but here in the apartment nestled between Richie's on one side and Alice's on the other, the peace was disturbed on several occasions.

In recent weeks, William has been spending more time in Richie's apartment than he has for well over a year. He pays his visits during the daylight hours, for which I am most grateful. There was a time, not all that long ago, when he was there nearly every night until midnight or later. I'm not one to begrudge a pair of buddies a few beers and a pleasant conversation. But on most days, Richie and William each had a few beers by 10 am and several more than just a few by the time they got together in Richie's place for a lengthy series of night caps.

It is challenge to make sense out of anything Richie or William say, but is never difficult to hear either of them. Richie is from somewhere in New England and has the accent to prove it. Once he gets rolling, which seldom takes long, he sounds like an enraged Red Sox fan hurling insults at the umpire from the Fenway Park grandstands. Still, Richie struggles to make himself heard over William, who tries to sound like a Marine drill sergeant, only louder.

One recent afternoon, as I sat at the computer squandering another day, the voices in Richie's apartment got louder and angrier. "You took my wallet," Richie yelled.. "I didn't take your wallet," Alice shouted. A door slammed, then there was quiet. An hour later, I was on my way to dinner, Alice was coming down the hall the other way. "He accused me of taking his wallet. I didn't take his wallet. Why would I take his wallet? He said I sneaked in to his apartment and took it. I didn't sneak in to his place. The only time I go in there is when he asks me in to have a beer. A couple weeks ago, he said somebody stole his wallet. Nobody stole his wallet. We looked around and found it. He forgot where he put it. I should sue him." I did my imitation of a concerned neighbor and went to eat.

As soon as Alice moved in, she began adorning her porch and the area around it with plants. One morning many months ago, Alice knocked on my porch door. She said she had a hose, but nearest hook up for it was over by Richie's apartment. Would I mind if she ran the hose across my porch? I had no objection. Alice hooked up the hose and routed it from the hookup, across my porch to her porch. The hose remained there until the day after Richie made the wallet accusation.

This past Wednesday, as I was squandering another afternoon, there was a knock on Richie's door. "Who's there?" he asked in his surliest voice. It was Kerri, the business manager here, she wanted someone to look at his arm. He made it clear he didn't need or want anyone to look at his arm. That evening, someone else knocked on the door and told him they wanted someone to look at the arm. Richie told the person to go away.

Thursday, I heard that Richie and William got into a fight. Richie got the worst of it. I went to bed at ten o'clock that night and quickly fell asleep. At 1:15 am, I was awakened by Richie's yelling. Lest I be accused of spreading "false news", I should tell you that this might have occurred at 11:15 pm. Between my nearsightedness, macular degeneration and without my glasses on, I often lose the first "1" in 11 and 12 when I look at the lighted, digital readout on the clock radio in the dark of night.

"Come in here," is what I heard Richie yell, or maybe it was, "Don't come in here." In any case, at least two men - based on my hearing two voices - did go in. I also heard frequent beeper beeps, but I have no idea where the men were from. And when they left, they must have taken Richie with them. I haven't seen him since.

Last night at dinner, Tony, who keeps his ear close to the ground, said Richie went home. It seems likely then that the men who came to his apartment were from a limousine service and took him to the airport. Over the past few weeks, Richie told several people he would be going home for a few weeks. And on Friday morning, the hose reappeared on my porch.

A Septet of Triolets

It has been almost three months since I have written a word. Hoping to create a spark large enough to get me scribbling again, I consulted The Complete Works of T. Harris (a disorganized heap of papers and a few Word documents) and found, among other things, the triolets that follow.

 I wrote these seven ,and twenty or thirty others like them ,when I was a member of Suzanne Byerley's writing class at the Conneaut Community Center for the Arts and later the Kingsville Library. Suzanne introduced me to the triolet form. One week I wrote two or three that had an off-kilter animal theme, and Suzanne and the others in the class kept encouraging me to write more. Which I did.

The class was a wonderful experience. Suzanne was a terrific teacher, so very knowledgeable and so very encouraging. Every class began with Suzanne going through our offerings from the previous week. Her critiques were always a blend of gentle criticism for everything from silly mistakes to flagrant grammatical and spelling errors, effusive praise for all that was done well, and wise, thoughtful suggestions to make the story, poem or essay a more effective piece.

Best of all, at least in my opinion, as she went through our writings, Suzanne would often read aloud a paragraph or two of the piece she was discussing. I loved when she read something of mine; not because it made me feel oh-so-special, but because she read so well. Each time she read something of mine, I'd sit there, listen, and think, "Damn, Tom, that's good stuff, much better than you thought it was." Then I'd read it when I got home and wonder why it sounded so good in Conneaut and like crap back in Ashtabula.

Mary got me involved in the class, and I am so grateful she did. She was also my chauffeur to class once my right leg and foot no longer moved with alacrity from the gas pedal to the brake pedal. Everyone in the class - Jeanne, Katie, Gitta, Nancy, Chuck, Wayne, Celia, and several more whose names I'm having trouble remembering - had class, and everyone had a ready smile. If memories of that class and all the people involved with it can't get me back to stringing words together, I don't know what will.

And now on to the poems I promised you a few hundred words ago.

Camel Lot

When you go to buy a camel,

Go to King Arthur’s Camel Lot.

To select a stylish mammal.

When you go to buy a camel,

Check his hump and tooth enamel -

You can’t return him once he’s bought.

When you go to buy a camel,

Go to King Arthur’s Camel Lot.

Jackal and Hyde

Did you know the well-dressed jackal

Gets his wardrobe from Mr. Hyde?

It’s enough to make you cackle,

When you see the well-dressed jackal,

Once a muscular left tackle

Now quite flabby and six feet wide.

Did you know the well-dressed jackal

Gets his wardrobe from Mr. Hyde?

Mammoth Melody

The huge, lumbering mastodon

Thought he was a pearl of culture.

But when he sang an opera song,

The huge, lumbering mastodon

Was much more frightening than King Kong -

Why, he even scared the vulture.

The huge, lumbering mastodon

Thought he was a pearl of culture.

Notes from a Porcupine

Too bad the prickly porcupine

Never learned to write with his quills.

When writing to his Valentine,

Too bad the prickly porcupine

Cannot write, “Will you be mine?”

Instead he makes scratchy squiggles.

Too bad the prickly porcupine

Never learned to write with his quills.

Rat on the Run

Life for the low down, dirty rat

Is not as easy as it seems.

Once the kitty knows where he’s at

Life for the low down, dirty rat

Becomes a battle with the cat,

Whose head is full of tricky schemes.

Life for the low down, dirty rat

Is not as easy as it seems.

The Cleaning Croc

Janitor Jim, the crocodile,

Worked every day cleaning the swamp.

The turtles had wild parties while

Janitor Jim, the crocodile,

Stood nearby – and never did smile –

With his dust rags, broom and his mop.

Janitor Jim, the crocodile,

Worked every day cleaning the swamp.

The Fussy Bandicoot

The fussy little bandicoot

Wouldn’t eat his seeds and berries.

And he just did not give a hoot,

The fussy little bandicoot,

For meals of spiders and dried fruit,

Unless the fruit was cherries.

The fussy little bandicoot

Would not eat his seeds and berries.