The Neighborly Comedy of Suburban Proportions

There was a time (30 years ago) when I was the man yelling at children to get off my lawn. Those boys in the Meadows Subdivision may not have all been a version of Dennis the Menace but I unfortunately was Mr. Wilson the cranky neighbor. I was more often grumpy than kind. More likely to tell him to get off my yard than to come have an ice cream out of my freezer.

Living in a neighborhood is like being in a relationship with a bunch of people you didn't choose. It can be a bit like being assigned a group project in school, except this project involves property lines, shared sidewalks, and the occasional block party.

Thirty years ago my relationship with my neighbors could have been summed up in one word: complicated. It's not that I actively disliked them; it's just that, well, I did't love them either.

I had my reasons.

First, there was the Noise Pollution Committee. They seemed  to have a never-ending roster of leaf blowers, lawn mowers, and power tools. I suspect they held secret meetings to coordinate the loudest possible schedule just to keep me on my toes.

Then, there was  the Overly Friendly Family. They were the ones who always wanted to chat when I was rushing to my car in my pajamas at 7 am on a Saturday. They had a knack for catching me at my  most disheveled moments, as if they had a sixth sense for detecting social awkwardness.

Then how could I forget about the Pet Parade. Every morning, it was like a scene from Noah's Ark as neighbors would walk their assortment of dogs, cats (yes, a cat), and even the occasional pot-bellied pig. I lost count of how many times I had to rescue my potted plants near the mailbox from being knocked over by their enthusiastic pooches.

Then there was  the Competitive Gardener. You know the type—the one who turns their front yard into a botanical wonderland, complete with exotic plants, intricate topiaries, and a water feature that puts the Bellagio to shame. It was like living next to the Chelsea Flower Show, except without the tickets or the champagne.

But perhaps the most perplexing of all were the Mystery Neighbors. You know, the ones we never actually saw but whose presence was felt through mysterious phenomena like missing mail, strange noises at odd hours, and the occasional unexplained barbecue smell wafting over the fence.

Despite all this, I eventually discovered that there is a certain charm to the chaos of suburban living. After all, where else can you find such a diverse cast of characters all living side by side, united by nothing more than a shared ZIP code and a mutual disdain for the HOA?

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Contact the blog author, David L. Burton at dburton541@yahoo.com.