People in My 'Hood

We’ve been looking at some houses that are for sale. Just on a whim. No real plan to move anytime soon. Not necessarily, anyway. Especially considering our heated discussions (and individual interpretations) over the perfect house. But that’s okay. Truth is, I really like our neighborhood.

It’s an older ‘hood. The homes are an odd, eclectic mix of structures built between 1900 and 2004. Mature trees line the sidewalks. But mostly it’s the people. We are as different as the homes. All ages, backgrounds, politics, religions, etc. Just walking the dog around the neighborhood can tell you a lot. It’s amazing how much of a person’s character is revealed by his home, choice of porch furniture, garden, etc. It just makes me smile. We are an odd mix of characters. Two cases in point:

Madame Artiste. There is one 40s era home with a glassed in front porch. Now, I’ve never met the owners, but it’s just a matter of time. I’ve already decided that the lady of the house and I are destined to be friends. How do I know? There are signs. I can tell by the drafting table and easel on the porch that she is a painter. Tiny white Christmas lights line the interior perimeter of her “studio” year-round. Then there is her own personal, quirky version of the David statue. The green stone guy hovers over a bird bath in her front yard, standing regally and gazing at the sky across his bare shoulder. At Christmas, she drapes a green vinyl tablecloth (avec white fringe) around him (lest he should get cold) and places an evergreen wreath upon his curly locks. He doesn’t seem to mind. In spring, he is stripped of his garment to frolic au natural—his holiday headpiece replaced with a spring garland. I love this guy. But it’s his owner’s sense of humor that intrigues me most.

Zippy & The Buckeye Guy. One night last week, Tom and I took Pete (the shaggy poodle) for a midnight walk. Now, I have to preface this story by saying that—while Tom loves to walk with me, he doesn’t like to walk with me and the Petri dish. (Pete never stays on course, and has been known to run around Tom –wrapping him in the thin leash. Ouch.) So we’re walking in the dark and see this big burly guy across the street, standing and waiting on a smallish white puffy dog. “Hi,” we say in passing. Upon closer inspection, we notice that the guy is dressed in full Buckeye regalia. He’s even wearing “Eau de Budweiser.”

“Can my dog sniff your dog?” He asks, slurring his words. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. No way am I looking at Tom. If I do, I’m gonna bust out in laughter like a third grader spraying 7up out through my nose in the lunchroom. So, I hesitantly walk Pete closer to “Zippy,” still unsure whether to laugh or run. Tom is doing his “proceeding with caution” thing. The Buckeye guy starts sharing his personal knowledge of dog psychology and deems the Petri dish ‘a nice dog.’ Pete takes one sniff of Zippy and starts to head the other way, wrapping his leash around Tom’s legs. Tom and I instantly go into a sort of dance to unwind Pete before he slices Tom behind the knees. “Wow, just look at how you two communicate without saying a word,” the Buckeye guy slurs. (I’m thinking—Yea, Tom is going to be communicating with me in a whole new bright and colorful language in a minute,if that leash slices him.)

Then the Buckeye guy starts talking about going to a dog trainer with Skippy. I’m thinking Skippy looks like he stuck a well manicure toenail into a light socket (in protest) when no one was home doting on him. He looks like an electrified snowball. Eventually, we start trying to continue our walk in the opposite direction, but the Buckeye guy is now asking if we want to know about all the dog parks in the area. For some reason I cannot explain, I say “Yes.” (I think it was because I was finding him so hysterical.) He goes on for 15 minutes about the one “good” one that he and Skip found, and have visited 30-40 times.

By now I’ve narrowed his life story down to one of three scenarios: (1) he and his wife are newlyweds; the dog is their baby and he needs to get out of the house (2) he has a new baby at home and he needs to drink a lot and get out of the house (3) he’s single, likes to drink, follow the Bucks and get out and talk to people …. about anything and everything. He’s wrapping up his dog park story—and weaving a bit (the alcohol must be kicking in). “You should go there,” he slurs. “It’s the best dog park in the whole …. whole …. whole ….” He’s searching his slow moving gray-matter for any noun that will fit here. “State?” I offer. “State,” he confirms.

Tom is halfway down the block. I say good night, and Pete and I turn and run to catch up with Tom. I’m snickering all the way home. I lay in bed that night and I’m still giggling. Ours is a good ‘hood … mostly because we are an odd mix of people.