Message to My Downstairs Neighbor

Posted on May 3, 2013 by Foxworld

After many years of living in a three-story apartment, I have come to recognize the considerable advantages of residing on the topmost floor versus a lower floor. Yesterday I taped the following message to the door of my downstairs neighbor in apartment 201. He works in construction and is more often out of state than home. I guess he’s gone right now, so he’ll read my note whenever he reads it. He’s a quiet, decent sort of guy and a good neighbor when he’s around, a sentiment which, living directly below me, he may not reciprocate. I’ll find out when he gets around to calling me and will hope that he feels inclined to see the humor in the situation rather than punch me in the snoot.

Meanwhile, I suppose I’d better get another roll of quarters so Lisa and I can do our laundry.

—————————-

Dear Steve,

Greetings! This is from Bob, your neighbor in #301 directly above you.

If you go out on your balcony, you will notice a roll of quarters—or what once was a whole roll of quarters—distributed about the deck, courtesy of me.

I got the quarters as laundry change when I went shopping at the D&W earlier today. This afternoon, as I was heading toward my car to run errands and then go to my evening gig, I realized that I still had the roll in my pocket. Thinking that Lisa might want to do her laundry and not wishing to trudge back up the stairs, I called her to the balcony with the intention of throwing the roll up to her.

Lisa told me not to—she didn’t want to catch it. Fine, I said, step aside and I’ll just throw the roll through the open door into our living room. It seemed like a good idea.

No need to mention that I have a terrible throwing arm, as I’m sure you have figured that out. My roll of quarters landed one floor too low, hitting your door and blowing apart on impact, scattering quarters like shrapnel. You now have all the laundry money your heart could ask for strewn about your balcony. But I would really like to reclaim at least some of it if I can.

While I’m at it, I’ll also mention the small blotch of grease on the rail of your balcony. That too comes from me. With the arrival of warm weather, the suet that I had put out for the woodpeckers this winter began to melt. By the time I grabbed it this morning to throw it away, it had turned into a nasty, icky pile of goo, and I noticed that some of it had dripped down onto your rail. It’s not a lot, but it’s my mess and you shouldn’t have to deal with it. Since I had already planned to knock on your door and offer to clean it up, I’ll do so here.

You must love living below us. It certainly packs a lot of entertainment value. I hope your new drywall is looking snappy and serving you well after that little incident with our leaky kitchen pipe a few months ago.

But back to the quarters: In trying to save myself a few seconds, I screwed up in a way that has eaten up a good 45 minutes. Have I learned my lesson? Probably not, but no matter. Grab a few quarters for your troubles, Steve. But if I can reclaim some of them, Lisa and I would both like to do our laundry. Call me at (xxx) xxx-xxxx and let me know when you’re around, or just give a knock on the door. I’ll clean up the grease while we’re at it.

Thanks,

Your wonderful neighbor in #301,

Bob

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The Squirrel Catapult

Posted on February 20, 2013 by Foxworld
Squirrel Catapult

I used to think squirrels were cute. But when a bushy-tailed rodent scares the birds away from my feeder, rips the bottom out of my finch seed sack, and all but flips me the finger when I knock on the window to scare it away, said rodent is no longer cute. It is intolerable. And it is Just Asking For It.

So after seeing some clips of squirrel catapults on YouTube, I thought I’d make one of my own. It’s a modest affair, as is necessary given the limited space on my third-floor balcony. But while it hasn’t produced the graceful, long-distance trajectory of some of the larger models–getting it to do so will require experimentation–I’m satisfied that it works fine. So far one squirrel that came here for sunflower seed has left in a way calculated to thoroughly astonish, and its ratty little mind is no doubt still trying to comprehend the experience. It was supremely gratifying to pull the  cord and watch the little monster go flipping butt-over-beady-eyeballs toward the snow.

I have yet to acquaint more of the local squirrels with my contraption. The bushytail supply isn’t likely to run short, and what’s particularly nice about a squirrel catapult is that, coaxed by a handful of sunflower seeds in the basket, the ordnance loads itself.

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Life with My Lapse

Posted on February 19, 2013 by Foxworld

A few minutes ago, Lisa walked into the living room holding a loaf of my favorite bread, Brownberry Oat Nut, and asked me if I had intentionally put it in the cupboard instead of the refrigerator.

Now, bread could conceivably go in the cupboard, but around here, it goes in the refrigerator. That’s just how it is, and the presence of bread in less breadish habitats–the silverware drawer, for instance, or the dishwasher–attracts notice much as my spleen would if it were dangling from my shirt pocket.

Judging from Lisa’s grin, I could tell she thought I had experienced a momentary lapse. Of course I set her straight. There is nothing momentary about my lapse. I’ve had fifty-six years to cultivate it, and it has settled in about as permanently and comfortably as a lapse possibly can. Sometimes I resent the ease with which it has done so. It strikes me as arrogant.

“You’re pretty damn presumptuous for a lapse,” I say to it.

My lapse, being intangible, makes no reply. But I know what it’s thinking: What would you do without me?

What indeed? For all its inconveniences, my lapse nevertheless provides me with cheap entertainment, and in endless varieties too.

Example: I knock on the door to Lisa’s room, walk in, and smile at her.  She looks at me quizzically. “Yes?”

Good question. “Yes?” in this case means, “Is there something you want?” and in fact there is. I just have forgotten what. Why did I come in here? My brain sets out in futile pursuit of an answer while the rest of me strives to look like something other than a poster child for early dementia.

“How’s your day going?” I ask.

Lis looks at me curiously for a second, then goes back to working on her website. Silence is the better part of discretion, and Lis is a discrete woman. I slink out of the room.

Example: On my drive home from church, the thought crosses my mind: Eggs. I need to get eggs.

The D & W is located conveniently along the way. I pull into the parking lot and head inside toward the dairy department.

Whoa, there’s the beer section. Gotta have beer. I snag a six-pack of Mad Hatter IPA off the shelf. Okay now, back on task. What was I after? Oh yeah, eggs. And now that I think of it, bread. I’m almost out of Oat Nut. I’ll just snatch a loaf. And while I’m at it, peanut butter. And there’s summer sausage–that would be droolish. And a Coke Zero for Lisa. She loves Coke Zero. Hmmm, maybe I’d better grab a cart.

I return home with three bags of groceries, feeling good. The mighty hunter has brought home the kill. I have beer. I have bread. I have ground beef, ham, split peas, chili beans, peanut butter, summer sausage, a big block of extra-sharp cheddar cheese (on sale for just six bucks), potatoes, onions, Coke Zero, assorted frozen vegetables, yogurt, popcorn, kimchee, mustard, milk, and two kinds of olives, black for Lisa and green for me.

The next morning, Lis calls to me from the kitchen. “We’re out of eggs,” she says.

Example: It has been a long day and I am really looking forward to spending some time with my saxophone. Have I mentioned that I like to practice my sax in my car out by the railroad tracks, where I can watch the trains go by? No? Well, now you know.

So I head out the door of my apartment, music in hand, and halfway down the stairs, I realize that I forgot my cell phone. That will never do. I go back upstairs and grab it, then head back down.

I’m nearly to my car when I remember: Nuts, I left that check I was going to deposit at the ATM on my desk.  Back up the three flights of stairs I tromp. Inside the apartment, Lis hears my key in the lock but says nothing, merely snickers. She knows this ritual from frequent repetition.

Check in hand, I do a quick inventory to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything else. Driver’s license? Got it. Credit card? Yep. Brain? Seems to be in place.

Down the stairs I go once again, and to the car, and now I am finally on the road. I pull up to the ATM, deposit my check, then drive the ten miles to my favorite spot by the tracks and park my car. Time at last for some serious sax practice. I am so looking forward to this. I reach into the back seat for . . .

My horn. Where is my horn?

Congratulations, lapse, you’ve scored again. This time has got to be worth at least twenty points.

This, my friends, is life after fifty. For me, it has also been life after forty, and thirty, and twenty, and birth, but I’ll just concern myself with fifty. My hair is graying and my splendid physique shows signs of wear, but my lapse is growing increasingly robust. That is good. We have had a long association, my lapse and I, and I am glad to see that at least one of us is thriving. I just wish it were me.

Okay, enough of this nonsense. Time for me to get the rest of my day cracking. I have things to do. Now if I can just remember what they are . . .

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