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Clearly, some nagging is in order—but I don't want to be the one to do it. Which is where Big Brother comes in handy.
When I read this summer that Dublin had passed a law requiring residents to keep their trash and recycling bins out of view, my first thought was about how little I used to like it when my parents would nag me to do my chores.
Do we really need city government to tell us not to leave our toys out when we’re done playing with them?
And then, as September began, my boyfriend reminded me that our neighbors in Westerville hadn’t mowed their lawn since early June. Their grass has gone to seed and I’m pretty sure that seed has gone to seed.
Clearly, some nagging is in order—but I don’t want to be the one to do it. Which is where Big Brother comes in handy.
We were encouraged to find that, like Columbus and its suburbs, Westerville has an ordinance for mowing enforcement of tall grass—the cutoff is eight inches, which I’m sure our neighbors passed in early August.
But I don’t relish the idea of calling and tattling on them.
This scenario is new to me. I’d always lived in townhouses or apartments before and primarily had other young people for neighbors. Maybe it’s a generational thing, but not one of us ever suggested we get together for a block party.
In my last apartment, in the Short North, I had neighbors who treated the building like a dorm. I actually found myself complaining about those darn kids and their loud music. I also had a superb rental manager who used to write letters to tenants tsk-tsking them for not being respectful of others and asking them to behave like grown-ups.
I could really use her now.
Part of the issue is that as I adjust to the quiet joys of living in a house with a mostly private backyard and few neighbors, I’m finding that I’m not very neighborly. I do not know any of my neighbors. And I don’t really care to. That leads to obligatory hellos every time we’re both outside and then (shudder) chitchat, maybe even small talk, the very stuff I stay home to avoid. (For the record, even though I might sound like an 82-year-old man, I’m not.)
I want to be someone who wants to be neighborly. I think it’s swell to have someone to water your plants and take in your mail while you’re away. Maybe if I had kids and no longer got to choose everyone I spend my free time with, I’d be more the block-party type.
Instead, I cringe every time I realize the middle-aged woman on the other side is out in her yard. She’s persistently friendly, even after I’ve explained and apologized several times that my emotionally damaged dog, Lennie, is pretty sure she’s there to hurt him and so he charges the fence when he sees her, barking as if he wants to eat her feet. (He’s never bitten anyone, but I don’t care to give him any opportunities.)
As long as she doesn’t say hello, Lennie usually doesn’t notice she’s there. But despite repeated barking bum rushes, she just can’t help but say howdy if she sees me outside.
I feel like I’m under extremely friendly surveillance.
Her intentions are good, no doubt, and part of me wishes I could be the jam-sharing, recipe-swapping neighbor she needs.
The people on the other side, however, have the zero-interaction thing down. (They’re also younger.) We both seem to take care to avoid eye contact that could be construed as friendly. I appreciate that they’ve made no effort to get to know us.
That would just make it all the more awkward when we end up reporting them to code enforcement for their tall grass.
