Country Neighbors

A SHORT, SHORT COUNTRY STORY FOR SEASONED CITY DWELLERS

Author’s Note:

One of the benefits of residing in New Jersey’s southern counties is the freedom for residents to develop mini farms or homesteads in their own backyards. Properties here are larger than in the northern counties, and there are few, if any, restrictions against using the land for growing vegetables or raising small livestock. It is not unusual for passersby to glimpse the occasional goat or sheep next to spacious residences, and signs on neatly manicured front lawns offering local honey or homegrown produce or quilts and other handmade crafts for sale. In these are reminders that New Jersey is aptly named The Garden State.

I

SUNLIGHT SEEPS THROUGH the blinds of the window above her bed. She blinks against the sharpness of the rays, and blinks again, slowly this time, squeezing the remaining fog of the night’s sleep from her eyes. A sense of contentment steals over her and she fights the urge to snuggle longer under the warm, welcoming blankets.  It is one of the pleasures of living in the country, this wakening to bright sunlight and the melody of songbirds outside her window.

   A deep breath, and she rolls out of bed, not yet fully awake, but sufficiently so to remember that she has a pressing mission that cannot wait for wakefulness. Without pausing to throw a robe around her shoulders, she stumbles to the front door, turns the lock, pulls the door open and conducts a rapid survey of the porch and lawn. She is afraid to see what she hopes isn’t there...and she is disappointed. The Mallard family has visited during the night and the front walk, the carefully laid path that she and her husband labored to build brick by brick, is dotted again with globs of stinky duck poop.

   For some reason the Mallards ignore the amenities provided for them in her neighbors’ backyard, preferring instead to nest within the meager pickings in her overgrown flower bed. They spurn their pond — a kiddie swimming pool that is faithfully cleaned and refilled by their keepers. They reject the handmade, straw-lined coop erected in the shelter of a copse of trees at the end of their own backyard, choosing instead to huddle in the dried-out mulch around her neglected rose bushes.

   And they poop on her walkway. Now what does she do?

Re-programming Grammie

Grandson Sonic (he’d be mortified if I mentioned him by name) scooted across the couch and snuggled close. It was nearly bedtime and he was stalling as young boys are likely to do. But it was Friday, and with no school or early appointments scheduled for Saturday, his mother was being lenient with the normally inflexible schedule. It was a tender moment, just he and me, uninterrupted by noises from the television or those annoying electronic games. After a few moments, I leaned over to him and whispered, “It’s almost time to go night-night.”

How could I have known that this simple phrase, used since he was a babe in arms would open the way to his asserting his transition into young-manhood.  

“Grammie, can I talk to you about something?”

I had heard these words before. Sometimes the request was followed by “can we talk in private?” and led to disclosure of an uncomfortable experience in school or on the playground, or for guidance on how to make a request to mom. He didn’t move from his seat and it soon became evident that I would be the subject of this discussion.

“Grammie, will you stop treating me like a baby?”

“Sweetie, how do I treat you like a baby?” I was certain any baby-ing moments were initiated by him.

“You say things like ‘night-night’. That’s baby talk. You could just tell me it’s time to go to bed.

                “Okay,” I agreed, “I won’t say that any more. Anything else?”

                “Don’t call me ‘sweetie’ when my friends are here. It’s embarrassing.”

Thinking back over the events of the afternoon, I recalled he shouted “hi Grammie” to me as I walked past the group earlier, and I called back, ‘hey sweetie’. The truth is, I use words like sweetie, honey, sweetheart, buddy, darling, guys and kids, because I sometimes can’t remember the child’s name in the moment. It’s convenient and quicker than reciting a litany of names in search of the right one.

                “Okay, I won’t,” I agreed. I wondered if other endearments were off limits. “Can I call you ‘buddy’?” He assured me buddy was tolerable. But there was one much more important thing he needed me to understand: I didn't have to shout for Grampa every time I saw a stink bug inside the house. He could take care of stink bugs just as well as Grampa.

             I applauded his willingness to make his wishes known to me. It may take a while, but I shall work on reprogramming my language. I'll miss the special warmth of honey and sweetie tags, but Sonic, as far as I am concerned, you can be the official stink bug killer of every stink bug ever created.