Welcome to the future. Behold MIRACLE BOX – an incredible breakthrough technology that will change your world forever. Imagine having a tidy, organized home, where everything is neatly stored away. Now that dream can finally be yours – unless you have young children.
Once every generation, an entirely new product comes along that is so powerful, so game-changing, that it redefines how we live. In the 1920s, it was radio. The 1940s launched television. The 1960s introduced the microwave oven. In the 1980s, we discovered the power of personal computing. And the millennium catapulted humanity into the future with the Internet and smart phone.
As life-altering as all those innovations have been – to how we spend leisure time, share information and eat frosted cinnamon pop tarts – perhaps none has revolutionized how we live as much as the latest technological breakthrough. Introducing the amazing, incredible MIRACLE BOX.
Brought to you by VFTB Enterprises, the makers of Placebolax and Dyzastra, MIRACLE BOX can be used for hundreds of applications. So, what exactly is this latest disruptive technology? MIRACLE BOX is an ingeniously designed quadra-sided containment vessel that features a perfectly flat foundation and symmetrically aligned vertical walls. Think of a giant Rubik’s Cube whose internal void can be accessed manually, and you have a vague concept of what MIRACLE BOX looks like. Its unique patented rectangular design allows people for the first time in history to put things away!
Consider that growing stack of Golfer’s Digest and People magazines that you just haven’t gotten around to reading. Insert them inside MIRACLE BOX and rediscover your missing cat that’s been hidden underneath all these years. (I’m sure he’ll be okay.) Don’t know what to do with all your daughter’s childhood art projects? The clay hand print, the Popsicle stick reindeer, the sock puppet? Put them in MIRACLE BOX, and you’ll never have to look at them again!
Still shoving those Playboy magazines under the bed and praying your wife never dusts under there? Improve your odds and save your marriage by making that mess disappear, thanks to the wonder of MIRACLE BOX.
No need to further alienate your teen by hounding him to put away his laundry. He can just stuff it – the laundry, that is, into MIRACLE BOX! [Our top researchers are currently working on a laundry containment version of MIRACLE BOX.]
MIRACLE BOX comes in countless sizes and colors – so there’s sure to be one to suit your eclectic style. Need to conceal a corpse? No problem. Just order our Ultra Grande size (S&H fees apply).
MIRACLE BOX comes in a variety of sizes, colors and textures. Perfect for storing everything from party supplies to towels. CAUTION: Not recommended for storing boys or girls – unless they have been behaving extremely badly.
For too long, people have endured the hassle and frustration of clutter. What to do with those 5,000 must keep baseball cards that represent every good (and fading) memory of your youth. How to protect your Hot Wheels collection from the sacrilege of being sold at a garage sale! Your well-meaning wife might protest, “Just throw them out! You’re 52 years old, for God’s sake.” Now you don’t have to. Just cram them (and your emotions) in a box – a MIRACLE BOX.
A basic MIRACLE BOX comes in your choice of cardboard or corrugated fiberboard. Choose from an array of texture upgrades, including plastic, plywood and metal. For the real storage connoisseur, why not impress your friends by choosing our Limited Edition premium model, constructed with 100% Malaysian teak or Amazonian mahogany? They’ll all wonder how rich you must be.
MIRACLE BOX offers a variety of useful options, including a handy feature we call a “lid” – perfect for when you want to effortlessly cover and uncover its contents. Need to quickly relocate some contraband because you suspect the cops are on to you? Why not order our MIRACLE BOX with convenient “handles” upgrade?
And check out our special ventilated MIRACLE BOX – perfect for storing recalcitrant rabbits, when you prefer not to suffocate them (Note: contents may expand without warning – especially if contents contain both sexes).
The response from people who have tried MIRACLE BOX has been overwhelming. Check out these actual testimonials from satisfied MIRACLE BOX customers:
“Before I discovered MIRACLE BOX, I never knew what to do with my extensive bottle cap collection. But thanks to MIRACLE BOX, now I can put them all away. I even saw a YouTube video that showed me how to stack my MIRACLE BOX on top of other MIRACLE BOXES. That blew my mind!” – Justin Idyott, Biloxi, MS
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Introducing the latest innovation from MIRACLE BOX – The MIRACLE FORT! This easy-to-assemble citadel is the perfect way to entertain young children for hours. (Sharpie, tape and box cutter sold separately.)
“I run insurance scams for a living. I started running out of office space for all the fake claims and bogus receipts. That’s when I discovered MIRACLE BOX. I went for the optional ‘lid’ upgrade. I’ll never go back to using my pool table to store this stuff – thanks to MIRACLE BOX.” – Frankie ‘Fingers” Barbato, Bayonne, NJ
So, what are you waiting for? Why not join the thousands of people who have discovered the amazing MIRACLE BOX? Order your MIRACLE BOX by midnight tonight and we’ll throw in a free set of MIRACLE LABELS. Wonder what’s inside that large box in your storage room? Thanks to the incredible MIRACLE LABEL, you need no longer wonder where you stored your first aid kit – or your medical cocaine.
LIFE IS A MIRACLE – THANKS TO THE MIRACLE OF MIRACLE BOX!
Disclaimer: MIRACLE BOX should not be used to store children or pets (unless you order the Deluxe ventilated edition). Do not use MIRACLE BOX as a guest room for your in-laws, as they may have difficulty finding the exit. MIRACLE BOX is not recommended as a place to keep expensive jewelry or rare coins, unless you clearly label your MIRACLE BOX with a misleading label, like “Nothing important inside” to deter theft. While indeed miraculous, MIRACLE BOX will not save a failed marriage nor restore hair growth. In rare instances, MIRACLE BOX can be fatal, as when in a drunken stupor, you ingest MIRACLE BOX, take off all your clothes and challenge a gang leader to a duel. If you paint a large black tunnel on the side of MIRACLE BOX, do not attempt to drive a truck through it.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Fred McFeely Rogers, aka Mister Rogers. If you asked me to name a hero, he’s the first person that comes to mind.
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” – Fred Rogers
As a child, I never watched Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. By the time his show first aired in 1968, I was 13. For an awkward teenager trying to fit in, Mister Rogers was the least cool show I could conceive of watching. He was an oddball, with that strangely slow way of talking and those goofy puppets (which I later learned he made himself). His manner was too saccharine sweet. A total dweeb.
Many decades later, I have radically altered my stance on Mister Rogers. Today, I think of him as a hero.
Who was this man with the unfashionable cardigan sweaters (all made by his mother) and his blue sneakers? It turns out the character you saw on TV was exactly who he was in real life. Fred McFeely Rogers was born in 1928 in Latrobe, PA. An only child till age 11, he was overweight for much of his childhood and was often picked on because of it. He graduated from Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and became a Presbyterian minister in 1963.
He later attended graduate school, where he studied child development. This led him to producing to several regional children’s television shows and finally to the iconic Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, which ran from 1968 until 2001. In his career, he wrote and directed 912 episodes. He composed all the music for his shows and did most of the puppetry. He also wrote dozens of children’s and parenting books on subjects ranging from going to the dentist to coping with bullies.
“As human beings, our job in life is to help people realize how rare and valuable each one of us really is, that each of us has something that no one else has – or ever will have – something inside that is unique.” – Fred Rogers
He received over 40 honorary degrees and countless awards, including being inducted into the TV Hall of Fame in 1999 and being awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2002. Despite all these achievements and awards, Fred Rogers never let it change the person he was. He was always a safe harbor of hope for children who were struggling. Whether they felt marginalized because of their weight, their skin color, a disability, or a cognitive impairment, to Mister Rogers every child was special and unique. He taught that it was our job as parents to help our kids understand their special gifts and to encourage them to find a positive way to express their feelings, especially ones like fear, anger, anxiety and sadness.
Mister Rogers’ shows were not always sunny conversations about rainbows and kittens. He believed in being honest with children. That’s why he dedicated shows to topics that were often especially difficult for kids to cope with, like the death of a parent, divorce, or being the victim of bullying or racism. When Bobby Kennedy was shot, he devoted an entire show to the topic of assassinations.
“I don’t think anyone can grow unless he’s loved exactly as he is now, appreciated for what he is rather than what he will be.” – Fred Rogers
In 1969, when black Americans were still prevented from swimming alongside whites, an episode of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood broke the color barrier.
Fred Rogers is my hero because he was a paragon of the kind of human being I wish I could be more like. He always preached kindness, compassion, patience, and acceptance of people who were different from ourselves. In these tribal times, Mister Rogers’ optimistic world view is the antidote for our culture of cynicism and intolerance. Mister Rogers always saw the individual first. He taught young impressionable minds to understand the importance of lending a hand to others and seeing the good in them despite – or perhaps because of – their differences.
“Knowing that we can be loved exactly as we are gives us all the best opportunity for growing into the healthiest of people.” – Fred Rogers
Although he was an ordained minister and he kneeled by his bed every night to pray for other people, Mister Rogers rarely talked about religion on his show. He talked about giving to others and forgiveness and how to guide people to find commonality with others, regardless of backgrounds or status. I still can’t watch his signature song, It’s You I Like without tearing up.
To the always soft-spoken Mister Rogers, life was not about winning. What mattered was helping others to win, especially those for whom attaining happiness might seem out of reach. This is the constant theme he preached his entire life, whether on TV or off – the importance of being present and doing what we could to make others feel safe to connect with the world around them. Not only to accept other people’s differences but to embrace them and celebrate them.
“Mutual caring relationships require kindness and patience, tolerance, optimism, joy in the other’s achievements, confidence in oneself, and the ability to give without undue thought of gain.” – Fred Rogers
Despite all his fame and fortune, Mister Rogers lived a modest life. He proposed to Joanne Byrd by letter at the age of 24 and she ran to a phone booth to call him to accept his proposal. They were married for 50 years until his passing. He weighed 143 pounds his entire adult life, perhaps in part because of his daily ritual of getting up at 5:30 every morning to swim laps.
For Mister Rogers, it was never about attaining wealth or fame. He once said, “fame is just a four-letter word, and like tape or face or pain or life or love, what matters is what we do with it.” He has taught me (and millions of others) that the measure of our lives is not our achievements, not how much we earn or the number of awards we accumulate. It’s about the person we become – our character – and ultimately the positive impact we make on the lives of others.
“There are three ways to ultimate success: The first way is to be kind. The second way is to be kind. The third way is to be kind.” – Fred Rogers
In the recent movie, A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, Mister Rogers (played by Tom Hanks) asks his interviewer – and us the viewer as well – to sit quietly, in total silence, for one minute. He asks us to reflect on the people who have made us into the person we are. It is a powerful moment in the film. It led me to thinking about the many people who have cared for me, picked me up when I fell, and supported me to become the person I am today and how blessed my life has been.
Fred Rogers, passed away in 2003 from stomach cancer at the age of 74, leaving a legacy that will hopefully be passed on for many generations. Looking back, I realize the nerdy TV personality who I once thought was totally lame was in a profound way one of the coolest people I’d ever discover. He’s truly is a hero to me.
As I have repeatedly tried – and failed – to live up to the lofty, unattainable example he set, I often think to myself, in a moment of anger or anxiety or disappointment, what would Mister Rogers say? How might he handle this situation? And in that moment, I slow down, take a deep breath, pause, and become, if only briefly, a slightly better person. Thank you, Mister Rogers.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
My wife and I foster kittens several times a year. Here are some of our recent guests. I know, they all look so adorable. Don’t be fooled. They’re non-stop eating, pooping machines that will turn your house into utter chaos, or as my wife calls it, “happy pandemonium.”
My wife and I run a cat house. We take in girls – and boys – who were living on the streets and require them to do tricks in exchange for room and board. We’re not proud of this. But we can’t help ourselves. Oh, it’s not what you think. No, we’re not running a brothel. Heavens, No! My wife always reminds me, “We’re never doing that again!”
What I meant was that we rent cats. Okay, some people might call it “fostering.” We take in orphaned kittens and we feed them, cuddle them, and teach them tricks like how to chase a string. Our guests stay about five weeks, after which, having (temporarily) satisfied our craving, we send them back to the local animal shelter. But it is an addiction, and withdrawal is no laughing matter. So, after a couple months, we give in and get another fix of furry toddlers.
Our two adult cats, Zippy and Buddy (former fosters themselves), graciously allow us to invite these occasional intruders. I want to keep them all, but my wife says zoning laws prohibit more than two permanent feline residents per household. Apparently, any more than that would cause a level of chaos and destruction that might threaten world peace – not to mention our marriage.
Make no mistake, my wife likes cats – a lot! If she and I were on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean with Zippy and Buddy, and a big wave washed our cats and me overboard, and she could only save two of us – let’s just say, my wife would probably be remarried by now.
While she likes cats, my darling wife absolutely ADORES KITTENS! That’s why she likes to rent, I mean foster them. Our job as a foster family is to play with the kitties and get them used to humans, so that I can fall in love with them and get my heart torn out when they inevitably journey back to the shelter to find permanent homes.
I’ll be the first to admit, fostering kittens is a lot of fun. But it’s also a lot of work. That’s why my wife and I divide up the tasks evenly. I’m responsible for feeding, scooping the litter, replacing said litter, cleaning the ubiquitous poop skid marks off the floor, sweeping the strewn litter bits, and picking up countless bits of shredded paper the kitties create. The above tasks need to be done roughly every 30 minutes. My wife willingly shoulders the arduous chores of patting and nuzzling the kittens and posting adorable photos of them on Facebook.
If I may, I would like to circle back to the part about feeding and scooping. The kittens are often only two weeks old when we receive them. Sometimes they are so tiny we must bottle feed them. But once they can consume solid food (around three weeks), their appetites are insatiable. A litter of six kittens can easily go through eight cans of moist cat food and three cups of dry food in a day. But they poop out roughly five times the volume they consume – something scientists have never been able to explain. With any luck, by the time they are ready to leave us, most of the kittens know how to dutifully excrete their poop within a foot of the litter box.
Our temporary house guests typically overcome their fear of us very quickly. By the second week, they’re routinely navigating up my pant leg, headed for my shoulders. Which brings me to the topic of claws. Did you know that kittens don’t know how to retract their claws? Me neither. I like to wear shorts. Imagine, if you will, self-propelled razor blades covered in fur scaling your unclothed limbs. In no time, I look like a badly abused scratching post – only with far more blood.
Things tend to get a bit complicated when Buddy realizes we have visitors. Everyday it’s the same pattern: He stands outside the door to the guest quarters and whines incessantly until we let him in. He looks at the kitties with an approach-avoidance mixture of fascination and fear until eventually several of them start chasing (and biting) his tail, at which point Buddy freaks out and bolts. Then 30 minutes later, he wants back in again. Go figure.
Kittens are naturally curious and adventurous – especially as they reach four weeks of age. This is when they develop an urge to go walkabout and explore EVERYTHING. They climb, leap, and knock over anything they can get their mouths on. They will play with anything they stumble into – except cat toys, of course. They will entertain themselves for hours, batting around an empty toilet paper roll, a rubber band or a twist tie. And they are masters at chewing on electrical cords, scratching the wood furniture beyond repair, and getting stuck underneath the couch and other impossible-to-extract locations. At this age, they have only two modes: Total pandemonium and coma. There is no in between.
When our short-term residents reach two pounds (around eight weeks), it’s time to take them back to the animal shelter to find forever homes. And this, for me, is by far the most difficult part. Because every time we foster, I get emotionally attached. I always want to keep some. My wife rationally insists we have plenty of cats already. Our negotiation sessions typically go something like this:
Me: Let’s keep all six of them. They’re soooooo adorable. Can we, sweetie?
Michele: No. We already have two cats. That’s plenty.
Me: Okay, you’re right. So, how about we just keep two kittens?
Michele: No. We already have enough cats.
Me: I hear you. Final offer: Let’s keep just one.
In the end, we reach a compromise, by which I mean we don’t keep any. We go through this dance whenever we foster. Every time, I tell myself I won’t get attached, and every time I fall hopelessly in love with every one of them.
By the time you read this, our house will probably be teeming with our next set of furry visitors. I already know my wife is going to say no, we can’t keep any furballs. But I have a plan. I know some embarrassing details from her past that I just might “accidentally” post to her timeline on Facebook – unless she agrees to let me keep one. So, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s totally up to my darling wife. Meow.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
When a reporter asked a question about Syria, the president launched into a 25-minute expletive-laden tirade about the Fake Media, the impeachment witch hunt, and how he was responsible for the Nationals winning the World Series: “I alone could win it.”
During his tenure as President of the United States, Donald Trump has repeatedly demonstrated a tendency toward outrageous and mercurial behavior. He took office vowing to build the now infamous Wall that Mexico would surely pay for. He expressed awe and admiration for Kim Jong-un, indisputably the world’s most heinous dictator. And he has routinely sided with Vladimir Putin against his own intelligence experts – but in fairness, that’s what you do when you want to score points with your boss.
This past July, he demanded that Ukrainian President Zelensky dig up dirt on presidential candidate Joe Biden or else he’d call Putin to invite Russian tanks to roll in. He even attempted to purchase Greenland from Denmark (in trade for California), then threw a tantrum when Denmark’s prime minister surprisingly responded, “Ummm… no, thanks, bucko.”
One strange episode that took the wind out of their sails for many high-level advisers came when our nation’s “most stable genius” president ever proclaimed himself the nation’s Weatherman-in-Chief, altering a weather map with a Sharpie – and then lying about it – to promote his story that Hurricane Dorian was headed for Alabama. The unprecedented levels of resignations and firings in his first three years in office have led experts to fear that “now that the guard rails are off,” and there are no longer any career professional advisers to steer him away from disaster, Trump will feel emboldened to act on his worst impulses.
Trump’s dubious and inexplicable actions and tweets may be in part due to the mounting pressure he is under facing almost certain impending impeachment. Experts speculate he may be showing signs of insanity. Others offer a simpler theory: Trump is an idiot. It’s become a hotly contested debate.
VFTB News has uncovered several startling instances of Trump’s progressively erratic conduct. In August, Trump, while sitting on the toilet, sent a privy memo to the United Kingdom demanding the Brits publicly besmirch Elizabeth Warren, or else he will have no choice but to release incriminating photos of Queen Elizabeth and her Welsh Corgis in compromising positions, or worse, blackmail the Royal Family into installing Boris Johnson as King.
An anonymous Pentagon source revealed that this past September Trump had issued an ultimatum to Iranian president Hassan Rouhan to come up with compromising information on Bernie Sanders or he’d order the US military to bomb Iran “back to the Stone Age.” He added, “Hey, Hassan, did you know that Bernie is a Jew? So what more incentive do you really need?”
In a move few pundits saw coming, Trump recently announced that, in order to bolster our dwindling military presence in Syria (which he blamed on the Democrats), he will be drafting Pete Buttigieg back into military service to serve his country. Although Mayor Pete was not consulted on this decision and has protested the questionable legality of the president’s one-person draft, President Trump tweeted, “Totally legal. Besides, this proves I support gays in the military. Too bad he’ll be stuck in some sand dune over in Syria and won’t be able to run for president. Sad.”
But the Donald’s browbeating tactics haven’t been limited to undermining his political rivals. We have just obtained a redacted transcript of a White House cabinet meeting in which Trump ranted for two hours and 27 minutes. He threatened that if any Republican Senator votes to convict him in the upcoming impeachment trial, he will cage their children in a detention facility in Texas. In a show of even-handedness, he added that any senator from either party who votes NOT to convict will receive a free weekend stay at his Mar-a-Lago resort – in the penthouse suite – with Melania – no questions asked.
With Attorney General William Barr at his side, Trump has announced that henceforth all Justice Department employees will be required to take an Oath of Allegiance – to President Trump. The oath includes a gag order to never become a whistleblower – unless they have the goods on a Democratic member of Congress, in which case, they will receive a $15,000 tax refund and box of Trump Steaks.
At a recent rally, Trump drew raucous cheers of support when he proclaimed that if re-elected, he’d repeal Obamacare, leave NATO, get Mexico to pay for the wall, bomb California, and issue a new $1 bill with his face on it, to honor “our greatest president in history.”
More than a few Constitutional scholars have become alarmed by Trump’s recent unveiling of his plan to re-organize the Executive Branch. Effective immediately, Congress will report directly to Kellyanne Conway. Meanwhile, the Supreme Court will report to Ivanka – with a dotted line to Jared. Trump hotly rejected his critics’ claims of unconstitutional overreach, arguing, “The Constitution clearly states under Article 2 that the President can do whatever I want. And nobody knows the Constitution better than me.”
In related news, Trump issued another Executive Tweet announcing his plans to expand the Supreme Court from nine justices to 150, with all future justices to be selected by means of an eBay auction. Furthermore, the Republican Senator willing to pay Trump the highest bribe will get to select their choice for Supreme Court justice. He added, “unless you choose a Mexican, a Muslim or a Lesbo, then sorry, no dice.”
In another sign that Trump might be showing signs of accelerated mental decline, it has just been reported that he has unilaterally ordered the conviction of House Intelligence Committee Chairman Adam “Shifty” Schiff on charges of treason. When asked on what grounds he asserted this charge, Trump shrugged, “The guy doesn’t show me any respect. Besides, Article 2 says I can.”
A moment ago, we learned of this breaking news: a butt dial made by Rudy Giuliani reveals that Trump will soon announce swift retaliatory action against any black athletes who refuse to stand for the National Anthem. They will be summarily deported to an African “sh*thole country” immediately after the election. The president confirmed this, adding, “I hear Cameroni is nice this time of year.”
In other news, this morning Trump warned he will shut down the National Golf Club in Colts Neck, NJ for hiring illegal alien workers – until his Chief of Staff pointed out that Trump actually owns that resort.
In yet another indicator the pressures of the job may finally be getting to him, as the president prepared to Board Marine One this afternoon, he announced he will temporarily free all the illegal immigrant children from their cages and re-assign them to complete construction of his border wall.
He concluded by saying, “If they can finish the wall before Christmas, I’ll give each kid an autographed picture of America’s greatest president. That’s me, of course. Lincoln was so overrated. Everybody says so.”
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
I am on the Covenants Committee of my local homeowner association. My job is to review complaints about trees blocking views and sheds that are infested with rats. Trust me, nothing brings neighbors together like having someone file an angry complaint about your over-height trees.
Is your job no longer motivating? Would you like a change of pace? Maybe have the chance to get out of your generic office cubicle, drink in the fresh air and meet interesting people?
Are you the kind of person who thrives on the futile challenge of coaxing feuding neighbors to set aside their petty differences and resolve their longstanding dispute over an incessantly barking dog? Sure, the pay is $0/hour, but you get a clipboard and measuring tape.
If this sounds too good to be true, I suggest you re-examine your life. Or you could consider joining my community homeowner association’s Covenants Committee, where you too could incur the wrath of seemingly docile retirees. I’d gladly swap my prestigious role for your cubicle. Whatya’ say, buddy?
Let me back up. My wife and I moved to this semi-rural island community five years ago, attracted by the slower lifestyle and stunning views of mountains, saltwater and nature – just like the other 15,000 residents who moved here before us. And like the other island-dwellers in our community, we were required to sign a document called The Covenants, outlining in convoluted legalese our rights and responsibilities as homeowners. We were hesitant to affix our John Hancock’s, but decided it was for the greater good.
Not long after, a former friend of mine caught me in a moment of weakness and convinced me to get more involved by joining the Covenants Committee of our community’s homeowner association. Since I had spent my career managing people and mediating conflicts between employees, it seemed this post would be a piece of cake. Um, I still haven’t forgiven him.
My duties include reviewing complaints and settling disputes as amicably as possible. In other words, I am an enforcer – not unlike Dirty Harry, only without his enormous persuasive talents, by which I mean his .44 Magnum revolver. Typical grievances range from “I’m sick and tired of looking at their rusted-out junkyard of cars on blocks” to “For God’s sake, it’s 2019! Make them remove the “Re-Elect Nixon” placards from their front lawn!” (We’re still working on that one.)
Far and away the most common complaint, however, is about too tall trees that are blocking one’s view of mountains, the sound, and, ironically, other trees. You’d think this issue would be easily remedied. I mean, how tall does a tree need to be?
Ours is a congenial community – most of the time. Once in a blue moon, there’s that one curmudgeon with the decrepit motorboat and the lawn he last mowed when GW was president. And he’s quite happy knowing it’s all driving the rest of us crazy.
And, there’s the “legally binding” Covenants, which specifically detail the maximum heights of trees and hedges, so people would readily comply, right?
Wrong. When someone buys a home in our community, upon receiving their signed copy of the Covenants, they are instructed to file this important document somewhere secure, which apparently means, “somewhere you’ll never, ever be able to locate it again.”
Sometimes my attempt at a friendly conversation in which I diplomatically request that they work with their neighbor to find an amicable resolution doesn’t always succeed. Take Ned Withers and Carl Johnson, for example. Carl requested that Ned trim his 45-foot cedars so that Carl and his family could catch a peekaboo view of the mountains in the distance. Ned said there was no way he was going to lift a finger for Carl because of Carl’s extensive collection of three-feet-tall garden gnomes (75, to be exact) that aggravate Ned to no end.
In situations like this, I may have to escalate the matter. By escalate, I mean, drafting a formal complaint on Covenant Committee letterhead, instructing the affronting party to take specific steps to address this problem within, say 30 days, or else we will have no choice but to take legal action. I usually throw in a few random Latin phrases just to sound like I mean business. My personal favorite is “Ego vere diligit lardum.” (That means “I really love bacon.”)
Most residents check their mailboxes only on Wednesdays – as that’s when the IGA grocery coupons arrive. So, getting a prompt acknowledgement of one of my official letters is a bit like waiting for the cable company to return my call about the billing error on their last statement. In 95% of the cases, the offending homeowner simply ignores my official certified correspondence. In the other 5%, I am treated to a creative reply like, “No problem. I’ll get right on this – just as soon as Hell freezes over.”
Ah, the joys of having quirky neighbors, who carry a grudge.
Sometimes, the complainant (that’s legalese for whiner) may push too hard, trying to browbeat the perceived offender into compliance. That rarely ends well. Imagine a simmering Hatfield – McCoy feud that began with Ned Withers’ flood light shining directly into Carl Johnson’s neon-lit bedroom – only instead of resorting to rifles and pistols, the weapons of choice are a Black & Decker AS6NG alkaline cordless screwdriver and a ladder.
Don’t get me wrong. The vast majority of folks here are considerate and accommodating, willing to work with their neighbors. But sprinkled among the reasonable denizens, we have our fair share of Ned’s and Carl’s.
It comes down to a fundamental problem: people here love to gaze out over the treetops at the shimmering water and snow-capped mountains. What a view! It’s why they moved here. But some are not quite as concerned with their neighbor’s view. To be fair, most of the folks here are perfectly willing to consider a fair compromise – so long as they don’t have to lift a finger – or a chainsaw – and they can leave everything exactly the way it is.
It can get exhausting. But I feel like we are slowly starting to make some headway. Just this week, I was able to get Carl to agree (albeit, reluctantly) to stop blow-torching the branches from Ned’s cedar trees that are hanging over his side of the fence. And in return, I convinced Ned, finally, to stop sneaking into Carl’s yard after dark to knock over his garden gnomes. So, that’s sort of a victory, right?
Baby steps. Baby steps.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
