What a Difference a Day Makes

Lately, the episodes in my Ohio adventure seem to conjure music titles.

My Dad never really understood my relationship with music. Dad once said he had no idea what accounted for the allure of musical theatre. After all, it was silly. No one runs around breaking out in song at the drop of a hat. He never understood that I lived for Rogers and Hammerstein. I sang constantly growing up. Unlike the rest of my family, I heard music even when none was playing (OK, I was responsible for self-broadcast renditions of Broadway favorites when I racked hay in the fields surrounding LaFox, Illinois).

Then again, maybe it's not the music as much as it is about titles and me. For 10 years I have been keeping lists of clever, provocative titles for the books I have yet to write. As luck would have it, the title for the one book I am writing eludes me. But I digress . . . and so the adventure is a month old. What a difference a day makes.

What have I learned in a month? -- That if you are paying attention, you have to get smarter. And, we are usually our own worst enemies when it comes to intelligence. Well, OK, yes, there are some people who are taken with their own brain trust--but, there it is. The wisest know there is still plenty to learn. In the end, my experiences of the last 30 days have once again reinforced that confidence and good communication skills are generally the killer combo. I feel sorry for anyone wishing for the past. It's a sure sign they haven't learned enough. I've also learned that you can survive anything (I admit, that's knowledge I had down coming into this) and that, like everything else in life, it's the little things that count (more on that later). I've also learned that people come in all varieties in all locations.

The Neighbors

Granted, I've expected a bit more from Ohio people than those in other places -- after all, it is in the midwest. But live and learn. Case in point: last Saturday. In the wonderful whirlwind of Bonnie's visit, I inadvertently picked up the set of keys that did not contain the one house key I owned. You guessed it. I locked it in the house. In the past, I would have spent considerable time punishing myself for my ignorance and focused on the money I would be throwing away on a locksmith, but those times are gone. After a half hour of shifting between the blustery wind on my front deck and the shelter of my car, one of Mariemont's finest showed up. Nice guy with a phone book. As my fingers walked through the locksmith section, I asked my officer in waiting which was the closest (it was the nearest thing I could get to an endorsement). We decided on the Fairfax address (next town south) and I gave the guy a call. He was not cordial and very up front about the fact that it would be a minimum of $60 and possibly more and did I have documentation to prove it WAS my house. Of course I HAD documentation, but it was not on me it was IN THE HOUSE. He finally agreed to come and I was impressed when he showed up 5 minutes later. In less than 2 minutes, he slid a piece of plastic through the opening and voila! He warmed up a bit and told me why I'd had trouble with the deadbolt and then announced that this would indeed cost me $60, held out his hand, and left.

Twenty minutes later there is a knock on my back door and it is the lock guy again. This time he looks sheepish and says that his conscience has gotten the best of him. He is, it seems, my neighbor who is lives about 50 feet from my back door in the 400, 000 some odd dollar house. This is, of course, a scenario that not even my overactive imagination could whip up--and in my totally unprepared state, I politely acknowledge that opening locked houses IS his business. To which he quickly replies, "How about we split it?" and hands me $30. MY sweet midwest sensibilities override my shock and I invite him in--an invitation which he declines. After a series of short answers about his family and his 18 years in the neighborhood, he makes his excuses (he is working on his garage) and leaves. When it all sinks in, I'm livid. It isn't the money. It's the fact that he knew all along that I was his neighbor and didn't acknowledge it. Besides the fact that he couldn't give up $60 to help out and do a good deed in the service of building a good relationship with someone who may live next to him a long time.

I'm learning that seeing this guy show up is akin to spotting an albatross or vulture circling your property--nothing good can come of it. Today, he stopped over with another neighbor. This time to inform me that I had sprouted a fountain in my backyard (my water main had broken). Mr. Locksmith (Greg) left after sharing the good news, but my other neighbor, Jarrod, invited me down to his house to call the waterworks and meet his wife. Kevin from the waterworks gave me the good news first. I can shut off my own water main. The bad news is that since the break was between the meter and my house--the expense is mine...as well as free flowing water for maybe 5 days. I remind myself to breathe. I have a home warranty and State Farm insurance. Yes, I did have to put a full nelson on the warranty company to get my AC fixed, but in the end I got what I needed.

The better news is that neighbors, Jarrod and Isabelle, are wonderful. She is an interior designer from Paris. He is an entrepreneur. And they have adorable Chloe who is 3. They love the old Victorian they've done a charming job of rennovating and have their own stories about "Greg" which include a nocturnal visit from Greg's wife and Jarrod's arrival at the door in his birthday suit. Jarrod and Isabelle made profuse apologies for not coming up to introduce themselves. They were leaving for a trip as I was moving in. But now they break out the wine and we have a lovely visit including a tour of the house, exchange of emails and phone numbers, and Isabelle's promise to find a tree farm where the boys and I can continue our tree cutting tradition. My faith in humankind is restored and I come back to the house with a new sense of ease about being here--I now have someone who will check occasionally to see if the raccoons or deer have eaten me.

It's the Little Things

Despite the fact that I spent the lion's share of the weekend unpacking the office and catching up on 6 weeks worth of paperwork, it was a good weekend. I did serious cooking in my kitchen and it is beginning to smell like my own. I am finding my sense of humor and am returning to my familiar habit of laughing at the ridiculous situations I get in and talking myself through each new "crisis" that comes up. Like the Kathy Bates character in "Fried Green Tomatoes," I know that I am older and have more insurance than the young homeowner--not to mention the additional "cushion" of the skeleton home warranty plan the sellers provided.

Since it's the first fall here, I am getting a sense of what things will look like in the winter. In a week, a good share of the beautiful leaves Bonnie photographed last weekend are gone (see Bonnie's pics below). Evergreens are the first things I'll add to the landscape.

Probably the most intriguing discovery this week has been how much little things can upset your balance. My internal clock is completely confused by the hour difference--but, it isn't only the passing of daylight and night that don't make any sense to me. I've discovered that we understand the passage of time by the rituals of each day and the play of light in each room. My morning ritual for 21 years or more has been waking up to Wisconsin Public Radio -- a routine of local, national, and international news reported by voices that have become familiar friends. PR here is not the same. I have been glad to hear familiar national voices, but the quiet, civilized delivery of WPR anchors and soothing classical and jazz programming is not to be found in this market. I've found a listener sponsored station that has a regular schedule of great old jazz and the Kentucky U public radio with the NPR morning and afternoon feeds--but it isn't the same. Today, I thanked the powers that be for putting me in the digital age. As I poured coffee, it occurred to me that I should be able to get a web feed of WPR and lo and behold, I had little trouble streaming it on my laptop. You can't imagine the joy of spending Sunday morning like I have for all these years with my favorite show "To the best of our knowledge" and scraps of Madison sprinkled in. Maybe I'll eventually migrate to Cleveland radio on Sundays, but for now it soothes me to integrate my two worlds.

Goodnight, John Boy...