Living in Creekwood Estates
Speaking of neighbors...
When I moved to a new town for a job change I was just recovering from back surgery and decided to give condos a look. But, when I think of condominiums I think of old geezers. Old people living in converted apartment buildings. But condos have come a long way in the past ten to fifteen years. They’ve become communities of all ages with free standing units and duplexes.
After seeing what they’ve turned into, I decided it was for me. I dreamed of leisurely sitting on a deck, drinking daiquiris and chatting with friends while a crew of buff men took care of all the yard work.
But as we all know dreams are dreams for a reason and usually when they come to fruition they’re not at all what we expected. That’s the way it has been for me once I moved into my condo.
It’s called Creekwood Estates. Sounds like a dream. Trees, water, mansions… but there is no creek. No woods. Certainly, no estates. The street is called Creekwood Circle but it’s not even a circle – it’s an oval. There’s lots of space between the buildings, lots of grass, newly planted trees that I imagine will be impressive when they become more than sticks in the grass.
Seventy-two units and about one hundred and sixty people, newborns to elderly, although the average age is probably above fifty-five. Temperaments range as much as age. There are condominium hermit crabs that I have never seen and busybodies whom I see too often.
I’m lucky to have one of the more notable families living next to me – Mr. I’m-the-man-of-the-house and his wife, Mrs. Busybody. Just after I moved in my boyfriend, now husband, came to visit for a few days. When he left he hadn’t even turned the corner and she asked, "and who is that?" BC could have registered its first earth quake that day when my chin fell and hit the pavement. She didn’t seem to notice – she just stood there expecting an answer. I wanted to tell her in very unneighborly words that it was none of her business but I bit my tongue and said, "A friend."
Her husband is just as charming. Ever since I moved in I’ve heard him scolding her like an incompetent child. I can’t count the number of times he’s said, "What did you do now?" One day I was out in front headed into my garage when I heard him call my name. I told him I’d be out in a minute. He kept hollering, "Rebecca, Rebecca…" I finally came out of the garage and said, "You can treat your wife any way you want, but I’m not your wife, and I’m not your dog, so I don’t have to come the minute you call me. Now what do you want?" This time it was his chin that hit the ground. He’s been pretty good about his manners since then.
I moved here to be further from my parents, only to find out that I now live smack dab in the middle of another dysfunctional family. Mrs. Busybody’s sister lives two doors down one way, everyone calls her Mimi, and her mother lives four doors down the other way, she’s Gigi.
I kept thinking that I misunderstood when people talked about them as family. Yeah, yeah, I had plenty of those ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’ that aren’t really family at all, just friends, but I’ve found out this family is real, too frighteningly real. I can’t imagine living down the street from my parents or my brothers. There’s obviously something wrong with this whole situation.
And then there’s Old Yeller. I remember the first time that we met. I was chasing my dog Sparky around the neighborhood. As a year-and-a-half old pup, Sparky loved to slip out the tiniest crack in the door and go gallivanting through the grass. Following him from shrub to shrub I gave him no chance to stop so there was a continuous yellow stream flowing as he ran.
If I had been less angry, and less intent on catching him, I would have taken more notice of Old Yeller. I saw a snatch of white hair but didn’t notice much else, I only heard him bellow:
"What in the hell are you doing? Get that damn dog outta my yard. If it shits you better pick it up…" He continued on, but we were quickly out of earshot. Old Yeller – grey haired – marked his territory.
I didn’t take too much notice of him again until the first condo association meeting. He was sitting in the middle of the township hall, with his nose up in the air sniffing out his opponents. I was sitting in the back. When finally given the chance, he jumped up, looked around the room, glanced at me and the other dog owners and barked, "I wanna know how we change the bylaws, these dogs are running wild, shitting all over the place and I’m tired of it. They’re never leashed. Their shit is never picked up. They gotta go."
He looked and sounded like a mean old dog. I felt sorry for Mrs. Old Yeller. How many years had she put up with this? Is it the way he treated her? Sitting there watching him bare his teeth made me feel compassionate for her.
All the things I wanted to say to him, and wanted to do rushed through my head. I felt like a spiteful child who’d just been scolded by her father and my thoughts followed that immature track. I wanted to jump up and say, "I wanna know how we change the bylaws, these grumpy old people are running wild and I’m tired of it. They gotta go."
Thinking of shit and "going" made me wonder if that was his problem. Was he jealous because my dog could shit and he hadn’t dropped a good one in years? I could get him a package of enemas and leave them on the porch. Or better yet I could prove to him that I did pick up after Sparky. An image of him stepping out the front door to get the paper and into a pile made me grin. Or I could say to his wife, "if you put a muzzle on him, I’ll put a leash of mine". I also wanted to remind his failing memory that "yards" don’t come with condos.
That night I made my husband promise that if I ever got so grumpy he would put me out of everyone else’s misery.
From then on every time Sparky and I walk by Old Yeller’s he gets to smell the grass and do any kind of business he wants. As my mother always said, "stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!"
According to another neighbor, I’d been trying to knock my building down for a year. I heard voices through my backdoor and opened it to find several men standing on my patio staring at a crack in the cement. I went out to see what was up. They were talking about cement work that needed to be done. There were no ‘hellos’ or ‘how do you dos’.
One of them said, "You’ve made structural changes. Did you get the board’s approval?"
I looked at him dumbstruck trying to figure out what he was talking about. I didn’t cause that crack I thought. Structural changes? I hadn’t added on to the building or screened the patio in. I stared at him with a questioning look.
"The gutter," he said pointing to the corner, "and the vegetation. I’m concerned that it’s going to grow up under the siding and damage the building."
"Vegetation? It’s a tomato plant for god’s sake."
"Still, did you get approval to move the gutter and grow vegetation back here?"
"For tomato plants? I’m allowed to have beds within three feet of the building."
He shakes his head and stomps off. I know I’ll be hearing more from Mr. Anti-vegetation. No one else complained about my structural change, but I thought about it all winter. Sarcastically thinking maybe he’s right. Maybe I should put the gutter back. I’d better do it…the building might fall down if I don’t.
So I moved the gutter back this spring and fill the holes in the siding with caulk. But I’ve planted my "vegetation" garden again because I’m pretty sure tomatoes aren’t going to bring the building down, after all, I have replaced that all critical aluminum corner beam.
Before long for Mr. Anti-vegetation started complaining again. This time is was a neighbor who lives two doors down who has a six-year-old daughter. This spring she got a play house and set it up on the back patio. The very day she put it out, he went to see her. I was there to witness the whole thing.
"Playground equipment is not allowed. I don’t know what you people think you’re doing here."
"’You people’? What do you mean by ‘you people’?"
He fumbled for words, "…I mean…you working people…you people with kids…you know this is a retirement community."
"First off, I can have anything I like on my patio, and second, this is not a retirement community. Most of the people in here are still working and there are plenty of kids. The very first family that moved in had two young boys."
The conversation ended with him walking off in a huff. I’m still wondering what he thought would come of his complaint. Did he expect that she would meekly acquiesce to his rude demands?
It’s no wonder communities have set up senior activities. Who knows what kind of havoc they would create around town without card games, puzzles, and trips to casinos.
Every time there’s an association meeting, I leave knowing that I want to move away. It’s always the same – an old folks’ grump competition – trying to see who can be the worst.
"My bush is dead" – please don’t talk about your wife like that!
"My tree is dead" – have you tried some Viagra?
"My gutters are clogged" – how about bypass surgery?
It’s always the same ridiculous stuff but at this point I wonder if escape is even possible. There’s only one way in and out. It’s not gated yet, but I won’t be surprised if a construction company shows up one day.
And what would I say to someone who wants to buy my place?
The next door neighbors, and their entire family, are just wonderful, if you can ignore the nosiness and yelling.
You’ll love the wonderful dog, Old Yeller, that lives down the street.
And the neighbor behind me is a structural engineer – so you won’t ever need to worry about the building falling down.
I’m stuck, that’s all there is to it, but I’m never going to be like that – I’m not going to let their grumpiness rub off on me – damn old people!