Nuisance Grass

 

That old cliché “good fences make good neighbors” was once upon a time quite true for our family. More than once, we have installed or rebuilt a fence to delineate yards or to contain our pets.

Upon moving back to Missouri in 2012, we encountered some encroachment that no one could have foreseen in this relatively peaceful suburb. Next door to us lived a family of seven: a married couple and their five sons who were renting the home. The homeowners of record, a middle-aged couple, had been forced to move to Texas to follow the husband’s job and health insurance.

When the boys were young, we had no issues with them. The parents were friendly to us, as well. The toddler twins, blond and busy, were adorable, and the three older boys were mostly pleasant to us.

Unfortunately, human nature made the situation next door unbearable in what felt like the blink of an eye when the husband, Zeke, opted to take off with some other woman (or so rumor had it). Janelle was left here with at least four sons; we think their oldest either got his own place or moved in with Zeke.

Janelle didn’t socialize much, at least not with us.

Soon the sons were running amok. Stu had to scold the bigger boys for playing catch right in front of our living room picture window. We were certain that those boys thought Stu an old crab, but we didn’t care about that as much as we cared about our property.

Zeke would appear on some weekends with a shiny new pickup truck to collect some or all of his sons. Once, I heard Janelle screaming at him with a frequency and ferocity one only hears in movies starring actual witches. I looked out my window mid-screaming to see Zeke actually cowering behind his truck door, as if he were a potential victim in a police shootout.

There were several incidents with red and blue flashing lights right outside my bedroom window at hours during which a working woman should not have been conscious. Another time, I heard movement at around 2 AM, and awoke with a start to peer through my blinds at a shadowy, male, human Stonehenge in their driveway, tiny phone screens all aglow.

Stu and I agreed that something needed to be done. The way our neighborhood is laid out, one can’t really fence off a front yard, and decorative brick or rocks would surely present a tripping hazard and/or a lawsuit opportunity.

That’s how we happened upon the ornamental grass plants, which at that time were small and harmless looking, not to mention free for the taking. Stu picked up ten of these and planted them: five in the front yard near our edge of the property line, and the other five in the back yard near the cyclone fence.

Where doggies go, not much will grow, and therefore the back plants died almost instantly. The ones in front, however, did exactly what we needed them to do, which was to grow large quickly. Sadly, the same was happening for the two young men and the terror twins.

Janelle was less and less visible, and the sons and their school friends more and more so, not to mention audible. Expletives were not deleted as mutual disrespect was shown loudly. Stu tried to get help for their situation, but more than once, we had to call the police.

When it became clear to us that the situation was unbearable, Stu discreetly messaged the female owner of record, who was very responsive. In fact, she traveled back here from Texas to check on the situation in person, staying with relatives in town.

Meanwhile, we had contacted our Realtor to help us prepare for listing this house, and started looking at other houses for sale nearby. Much as we had grown to love our home, we figured that we could easily replace it and move on.

One day, when Stu saw Janelle outside, instead of simply waving, he approached her and proclaimed to her, “You win! We’re listing and moving away. We can’t take this anymore.” Imagine our surprise when she replied, “yeah, well, we’ve been evicted, and we’re moving first!”

That summer, our next-door homeowner and her little dog were back here doing some serious corrective remodeling on the home that she and her husband still hoped to retire to. After the remodeling finished, of course, she had to go back to Texas. Their home was then rented to a young, childless couple who were so quiet we barely saw them, although we would wave and smile.

Grass plants kept growing, although we no longer felt their need. And every autumn, we would need to surgically remove the waving stalks of seeds that got commensurately larger and heavier.  

This year, thanks to the really bizarre weather all summer, the plants are beyond nuisance category. It has turned into what might happen if saw grass and bamboo birthed a child, with seeds that cling to every conceivable clothing item, fur, and hair, and work like tiny burrs on sensitive skin.

Several years ago, when our homeowner neighbors retired and moved back here, we tried to have the plants removed. Our attempt to give them away free yielded the realization that, where post hole diggers and shovels failed miserably, a backhoe or similar equipment would be required to dig them up.

The nuisance grass is here to stay, and so are we, it would seem.

 

Shoulda Beena Crime

The eye doctor caught my attention from afar, as I’m sure he did with others in the store. An aging man with strawberry blond hair, especially a tall one, sticks out like a sore thumb in my neighborhood these days. And initially, I admired him so for being able to successfully run his own business.

Whether or not my skills of observation are sometimes suspect is not mine to decide. Let’s just say that some bias must have played in, based upon my own job experience prior to 2012. Dude was being his own boss and appeared to have it all!

Isn’t it funny how outsiders observe business owners? They rarely know the fast-paddling duck feet just below the surface, only seeing the smooth and composed part above the water. As a result of that first semi-successful encounter where I transitioned from many years of contact lens wearing to multi-focal lenses, I made a snap judgment that would not be in my own best interest.

Time went by. My eyes changed a lot, and my jobs changed a lot. I had trusted this excruciatingly pale human with all my eye care, with just a few selective exceptions, and those did not go particularly well or inexpensively for me.

Doctor Big Red remained loyal for my eye care needs, and he was oh, so close (at least on certain days of the week at certain times). Convenience is sometimes my worst enemy, as I belatedly observe. For nearly ten long years, he diagnosed and corrected whatever went wrong, accepting my varying health insurance or lack thereof.

I was never surprised by the diagnosis of glaucoma, since, after all, what sort of foolish whitie lives in Florida’s relentless sunshine for nearly 3 years? I agreed silently to the 6-month diagnostic checkups. My own super-pale father was very hindered by his own glasses and near blindness for most of his admittedly short life. What did I expect?

That’s how I wound up having three nearly identical pair of glasses from the same store chain: one small gold one from Central Florida for distance only, the metallic purple pair for my multi-focal everyday wear, and a larger copper one for mid-range. Life was good and comfortable, as sometimes occurs.

Until – and there’s always an “until” in stories of this type. Until our son and his lady love got married in a faraway land in the middle of a pandemic. Until my husband and I were expected to fly to the Great Northwest to be with the family and friends. Until everything changed for this couple.

Dropping off our two beloved dogs at our favorite boarding facility, I was rushing around with a mask on (two things I should never do together at my age and grace) when I stumbled and fell on the boarder’s concrete walk. I did a very inelegant three-point landing as well: left knee, right hand, forehead. BOOM!

The journey itself became a nightmare, which was no fault of our son and his new family at all. The good news was that I had remembered to bring my smaller glasses, potentially to drive at night if required. The bad news was that hubby, in whose name the rental was made, had scanned his driver’s license at home to email our son for purposes of advance rental, and there upon scanner the DL remained.

OK, that in itself could be a whole article, and I won’t go there at this moment. Suffice to say that limping around with baggage and one good eye wasn’t my favorite thing, and these were also not my husband’s finest moments.

We got through the five-day whirlwind of events with minimal actual damage to us or our luggage, for a change, especially since given my condition, we opted to check through one or two of those bags. From what we could tell during and afterwards, a really nice time was had by all attendees at each event.

A month or so after the wedding, I went back to favorite Eye Doc to get the right lens replaced in favorite purple pair of glasses. Hm. Not like I remembered him. Not at all like I had remembered.

We were both masked, and he also wore a special plastic shield over his face. This is not a great thing for a soft-spoken mumble-mouth of any age, and when the client is sans glasses, she would not have been able to read his lips anyway. I learned way too much about Dr Big Red that day, that much I know.

Politics! Oh, my actual God in Heaven. He and I were worlds apart, and he was pissed. I no longer pitied him, but was glad not to be spat upon. He gave me the cursory, and I do mean quickie, eye exam. I was like, get me TF outta this chair stat! I apparently needed new lenses in both eyes (no surprise to me).

The other thing I learned that I could actually hear is that I most assuredly have cataracts, and not just ones that doctors “watch for progress” in a patient. Surgery would make my colors brighter and at least one aspect of my vision crisper and clearer. Holy Guacamole, Chatman!

Last, but certainly not least, the well-meaning optical assistant stopped in to inform the “good doctor” that my health insurance would not be honored at all for this visit. Wait, what? Screeching sound in my brain. But then again – oh, snap – I had changed flavors of ACA on January First, so that was likely. Ugh.

There were a few more indications that I was not getting thorough eye care, including the fact that I had to return no less than three times to the store to order my pair of lenses for my beloved purple frames. Once, the machine that measures lenses for fitting frames was malfunctioning. More than once, a supervisor from another part of the store needed to be summoned to accept my payment.

Finally, the lenses were complete, and I went to get them. Total disappointment ensued. Although I don’t know how to determine prescription correctness, I was certain that the right eye was all wrong. I returned the lenses for a full refund, and verbally advised at least one optical assistant that their boss was a crook.

About a month thereafter, I received the insurance statement of benefits online as filed by the optical office at this store. Was my insurance honored there? Hell, yes. Was I going to go back and demand another refund from that redhead for all but the non-covered piece of the exam? Hell, no.

It was a nominal fee for another life lesson in human nature, that’s for certain. Doctor Big Red and his minions probably won’t notice my departure, and I’m 100% fine with that.