Maple Lane and my neighbor's affairs

My neighbors and I live in a beautiful woods. Our quarter-mile curved drive winds south through groves of mature maples and hickories ending in a cul-de-sac. The center of the cul-de-sac is a small garden featuring trim evergreens and neat plantings of hasta and black-eyed Susans. Nine lovely homes lie nestled among mature trees on either side of Maple Lane.

While these homes are varied in style, they all feature long, sloping roofs, rich brick or cedar siding, and large expanses of glass. Some feature small, nicely tailored lawns of blue-green grass and colorful perennial gardens. How all these plantings thrive so well under the rich canopy above, is a mystery to me. But they do. On the west side of the lane, wooded backyards slope down to a long, lovely pond, richly seeded with varieties of bass.

You've seen this place. It's one of those attractive places you find in nearly every community that folks seek out to drive through slowly -- gawking, oohing and ahing. Think rich-looking and varied brick mailboxes. Think still-hardy, energetic retired folks poking about in gardens with hoes, rakes, spades, snippers, and small hand-scoops. Think young-looking grandparents.

Think, "HolyCOW!? How much does it cost to live here?" Think, "Yeah! This's how the other half lives." Think, "Well. . .maybe someday. . . ."

But you'd be wrong!

Think instead, this is what two retired school teachers can afford, if they've worked hard, lived frugally, saved some of their salaries, finally gotten their kids through college, and maybe have had some good luck with a few small investments. And maybe, just maybe: one of them is still working full-time at a local elementary school, and the other one has a small business building and selling storage sheds -- or something like that. And they haven't had any of those expensive vacations or trips to Europe, either. This home has been their lifelong dream.

I'm willing to bet you'd like these people. In the next few postings I'll introduce you to some of them. They're probably just like you: hard workers living by the Golden Rule and the Boy Scout Law. Kind, gentle people. Lucky, skillful people living their dreams. They're deeply human. Maybe even fallible in small ways that don't much show. Their most common traits are that they're busy and diligent, down-to-earth and friendly.

My home is nestled behind a maple grove on the far-side of the cul-de-sac. My neighbors on the east are retired school teachers. I'd like to introduce you.

Ann is a retired school librarian. Kind and quietly lovely as she is, I always expect that when I greet her at her mailbox she might place her index finger to her lips and issue a nearly silent shhhhhhh! Before he retired, Skip taught earth science in a local high school for 30 years. In fact, his curriculum may well be the basis of his most witless compulsion. He's a truly earthy guy.

Some men get restless as they slip into their sixties, I suppose. Perhaps that's why Skip is currently carrying on a series of passionate love affairs. Right in public, too.

Shameful, I call it.

He can't keep his hands off his lawn mower. He's crazy about his power blower, too. He risks an oily smirk as he fondles his various clippers, gardening tools, and his large variety of pole and handsaws with which he meticulously trims his ornamental bushes and trees.

Thank heavens I'm not one easily led by a good example. I often sprawl comfortably on my deck-hammock marveling at Skip's industry. Zip-snip-snap, he reshapes a sprawling young hemlock. Dig-dribble-slice, he splits, lifts. and resets a rampaging hasta. Clip-clack, he rounds a lop-sided ornamental. Bonk-bash-whip, he drives a stake and ties back the errant limb of a wayward bush. Scritchy-scratch-blop, he rakes a small batch of debris from around the foot of his hemlock fence and deposits it cleanly into a handy plastic bin for later disposal.

He's never still for a moment. Watching him exhausts me. Thank heavens for my frosty pitcher of iced tea. I've attached a short length of rope to a fixed bench with an eye-hook, so I can gently rock my hammock as Skip races pell-mell around his yard. After all, someone must be available to call EMS when he inevitably collapses, another sad casualty of determined woodsmanship and admirable work habits. Leave that to me. Cell-phone in hand, I lounge lazily, alert to the first sign of emergency.

Of all his dangerous compulsions, Skip's meticulous lawnsmanship is by far the most hazardous. I try to set a bad example for him. But he resists. Once -- maybe twice -- in a month's time I might cut my lawn. He cuts his every three days. You might think my lethargy would encourage my lawn, while his diligence might discourage his. But no! My lawn lies there, a hopeless hodge-podge of earth-tones, a sad mixture of foot-worn bare spots, mole trails, and wispy clumps of tired grass. Skip's lawn remains one sweeping carpet of Kentucky blue.

I'm a quiet guy, the kind who loves a misty day -- books and yoga, long walks and reflection are my favorite things. I bought my mower in 2000, and since then, I have not once changed the oil or sharpened the blade. Skip's a handy, home-maintenance zealot -- the sort who washes his car by hand. And polishes it. Then, as if that were not already too much, he changes the oil. Maybe applies his howling and carniverous Shop-Vac.

Beware! Good work habits have a disheartening way of spilling over into otherwise harmless avocational pursuits. Skip maintains his mower with wild-eyed NASCAR zeal.

As a good neighbor, I've done my best to help Skip. But his good habits persist. With your comments, please recommend ways I might help him.