I can’t believe it is almost the fourth of July.  The air around here is already full of the scent of black powder.  I constantly hear the pop, pop, pop of firecrackers.  We live in a very tight little neighborhood, and as I have mentioned before, it is full of older women who are mostly widowed.  They create a myriad of problems.  Not because they are widowed or old…because they are cranky.

We have a home owner’s association.  We have all read this and signed it, and returned it to the secretary of the HOA.  These old women are very conscious of these rules.  It seems that they have read them, memorized them, and are capable of repeating them verbatim if you pop up with an incorrect version of the way they are written.  They know about having your dog on a leash.  They know that cars are not supposed to be parked on the street after dark.  They think the neighborhood watch means that they are personally responsible for everything that goes on in everyone’s home.  The most precious rule it seems is the one that asks us to keep noise levels down after ten o’clock at night.

I really don’t understand their concern about this particular rule since it seems that most of them stay up way past ten.  They have to stay up and watch the weather after all.  I’ve talked to several who watch a talk show of some kind.  Dave is a favorite.  Anyway, I’ve heard from the source (and you know who she is) that firecrackers are going off way too late in the night.  Something needs to be done about these kids.  We have maybe a dozen kids in the neighborhood,  most of whom I know through Halloween night.  These aren’t teenagers.  They are elementary and middle school kids.  They are bright and helpful and well-mannered.  When I begin decorating the yard for Halloween they are glad to help.  Well anyway, these old head hunters are after the kiddos.

I saw a couple of my favorites out yesterday shooting bottle rockets.  They were doing everything just right.  They had a bottle (no holding them in your hand), and a garden hose nearby just in case something went awry.  They were using a punk, and standing well back from the rocket as it went off.  I went up to talk to them about the flack they were getting from the elderly contingent.  After a riveting conversation I found out that most of the complaining came from my very dear, very Southern friend, who lives down the street (oh come on, you guessed this in the third paragraph). While it’s true she goes to bed about seven o’clock every night, she doesn’t go to sleep until much, much later.  She watches televison, and reads until midnight sometimes. So, I called her to see wtf was going on.  The conversation went something like this:

“Have you been having much trouble with the kids and firecrackers?”  “Oh my Lord!  Those kids fire their firecracker and thing-a-mabobs until dawn.  I don’t know where their parents are, but I shouldn’t have to be the one to rein them in.”  “Really?  Because I never hear them after about nine or so.”  “Well maybe it’s because you live at the other end of the street, or maybe it’s because you need your ears checked I don’t know.  What I do know is that a body can’t get any rest around here.  I can’t wait until July fifth.”  “Have you talked to them and asked them to pay attention to the time?”  “Yes, but they lie and their parents lie.  They swear they are all inside and in bed by ten.”  “Well, is it possible that you have mistaken the time that the fireworks stop?”  “Hell no!”   I have to say this conversation went about as expected.  I told the kiddos that if they were going to do fireworks after seven they might want to come to my end of the street.  It’s probably safer.

The old men are just as bad or worse.  One fourth we were having a little gathering in our backyard.  This particular fourth fell on a Saturday.  We had maybe ten people total in the backyard swimming.  There was conversation that was kept at a reasonable decibel, and kids jumping off the diving board but nothing noteworthy.  It wasn’t like it was a rave or even a night at the Osbourne’s.  It was simply a small gathering.  We were shooting a few fireworks off on the basketball court.  They were mostly fountains and things of the same family.  They were pretty, not loud.  Well, a little after ten we get a phone call from the cranky old man that used to live next door.  It was on the answering machine. “This is Art.  You need to tone it down over there.”  Well, we did nothing because a.) we didn’t get the message and b.) even if we had, we knew we weren’t making enough noise to be a nuisance.  A few minutes later the second call came, also on the machine…”If you don’t calm down over there I am going to call the cops.”  The third call was intercepted by Boppy.  Now Boppy is the epitome of polite.  He avoids confrontation whenever possible.  You can always count on him to keep his voice level and try and find a solution to any problem.  On this particular Saturday, the fourth of July, Boppy must have had his fill.  When Art called this time the conversation went like this…”I’m tired of calling you all.  What’s going on?  Are you having a party over there?”  What do you think this,  a holiday?”  To which my calm and easy going hubby replied, “Yes, as a matter of fact it is” and he hung up.  I have never loved him more.  He just hung up!  I know that seems like nothing, but you have to understand for Boppy this was ballsy.

I personally think Art got lucky.  Boppy answered the phone not me.  It could have been a much more intense conversation.  I am not calm or easy going.  Where Boppy might casually stroll in a little ticked, I thunder in with a contrail of intensity following behind me.  I rant first and ask questions later.  This is why we work.  We balance each other out, and usually when Boppy is ticked he asks me to take care of whatever is going on,  because he knows that if they start giving me crap, I only become more convinced they will go down in a furious ball of flame.  Even with my short fuse and hot temper I don’t mind kids shooting off their fireworks.  Don’t shoot them at me and I’m fine.  Shoot them until the wee hours of the morning!  I am well medicated.  You will not disturb my sleep.  This was the point I tried to make with my very dear, very Southern friend who lives down the street.  Just take a Tylenol p.m.  The kids won’t bother you.  Put some ear plugs in your very delicate ears and you will be fine.  These are just a few of the suggestions I gave, and do you know what I got for all my efforts?  “Aww hell.”

« Older Posts