Micro Monday - February 17, 2025
The Neighbor
I’m in a weird sort of feud with my neighbor.
It started in November of last year. I’m not big on yard work, but I enjoy raking leaves. The weather is nicer, for one thing, and the rustle of dried leaves is much more soothing than the whine of a lawnmower or the scrape of a snow shovel against the sidewalk. I look forward to throwing on a hoodie and a knitted beanie and spending a few minutes outside in the late afternoon, then coming back into the house to warm up and make myself a snack.
There’s also just something appealing about a simple task that fits within the bounds of a rectangle. Whether I’m writing or at I’m work, so much of what I do is mental, logical, ethereal. It’s a nice reprieve to work on something bound by physical geometry, where I can see the before and after and measure my progress throughout.
Unfortunately, it stayed warm for far too long, and then got cold and windy all at once. The trees held onto their leaves until the very last moment, then dumped them in an ankle deep pile overnight. We have trash pickup for yard waste, but we only get one bin per week, and I started to fall behind, limited by the number of leaves I could physically cram into the bin. After a few weeks of this, my neighbor (who owns a big fancy leaf vacuum) crossed over into my yard and finished the job while I was out.
I don’t have official numbers on this kind of thing, but I suspect half of you are thinking, “Oh, how nice of him.”
And the other half are thinking, “That son of a bitch.”
I stand somewhere in the middle. Both of my parents have a self-destructive work ethic (imagine Boxer from Animal Farm, happy to work themselves to death, and perfectly willing to be turned into glue after they’re gone; pigs love them). To be sitting down while someone else is working was a mortal sin in my home, so the idea of someone else finishing my yardwork is a weird sort of pill to swallow.
But I told myself that I would return the favor once the snow started.
Not so.
I’ve recently discovered that my neighbor is the human equivalent of a husky. As soon as snow touches the ground, he commits to ten hours of exercise. He doesn’t just shovel my sidewalk. He shovels the entire sidewalk, both sides of the street, for the entire block. Then he shovels the back alley behind our houses. Then he shovels his driveway, my driveway, and at least two other neighbors’ driveways.
I’ve heard him shoveling at dawn. I’ve heard him shoveling long after sunset. I never see him do it. To be honest, I’ve never even spoken to him. He avoids eye contact, and always manages to pick moments when no one else is around. He seems like one of those rare people that was born to do invisible work. Thanking him, I fear, would only embarrass him.
As a writer, it’s fun to imagine the kind of character he would be. Maybe the blank uniformity of snow irritates him, and he likes to reestablish the familiar lines of roads and sidewalks. Maybe his father taught him the simple wisdom of doing a job now, while it’s easy, instead of later, when the snow is too deep to move.
Maybe it’s something even deeper: the idea that, as social primates, humans were meant to look out for each other. There’s an understanding deep in our DNA that we all have a stake in the world we want to live in, and maybe that gene is more strongly expressed in some individuals, but in any case, here he is, doing his part.
I won’t say this story is for him, because there’s a very small chance he’ll ever read it. It’s definitely about him, though (and me, and you, and us). Civilization is a funny business. In the end, we’re all just odd little animals trying to come to terms with one another.
The Neighbor
A barn owl moved into the neighborhood last week. Very private, keeps to himself. Doesn’t answer the door, even though we’re sure he must be home, that sort of thing.
“He works nights,” said Mrs. Walters. “I heard him leave the house at two in the morning last night.”
No one asked Mrs. Walters why she was awake at two in the morning. We happily forgave her spying, so long as she told us everything.
“Can’t say I like his politics,” added Mr. Carlisle. “But if he keeps the rats out of my garden, I’m happy to shovel his bit of sidewalk.”
Everyone nodded agreement. It comforted us to imagine the owl here in winter, nestled somewhere in the rafters. At times, I think we would forgive anything, so long as it stayed in one place for a while.
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