YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE OLD TO DIE

I know I’m stating the obvious when I say you don’t have to be old to die but today, the message was driven in, harsh and cold.  I received a couple of e-mails, informing me of the death of a vibrant and caring young woman, Eileen Mabee.  She was just about the same age as my daughter, in her middle 30s.

Eileen was the founder and primary organizer of a Meetup group I belong to, Muttley Crew.  We met a couple or three years ago, when I got Sofie Snowflake (puppy mill survivor) and wanted to socialize her in a relaxed setting, where she could be off-leash, among other dogs and learn from them, hopefully, how to be a dog.

Eileen had organized the second trek we went on and I met her and her German Sheppard, Keeper, at that time.  We met at the Scotsdale Farm, near Georgetown and that day, I found two gems, Eileen and Scotsdale Farm.  It was an interesting day and I quickly realized that Eileen was a special person.  The other person there was a woman named Alexia, who brought her dog, Daisy, who was absolutely in love/lust with Sofie.  Love/lust knows no gender boundaries, especially in the dog world.

The day was glorious, late winter, February, if I remember correctly and a rare sunny day.  I got a little discombobulated trying to get to Scotsdale Farm, even with my GPS.  I called Eileen from the car.  She seemed to know exactly where I was and how I got off track.  She was able to give me excellent directions and I made it to the meeting spot in no time.    

Eileen pulled into the parking lot, about 15 minutes after me and I remember her buck-toothed grin as she walked over and introduced herself to me and greet Alexia.  She was dressed well for the day and you could tell that she dressed for herself and wasn’t out to make a fashion statement. Her heavy jacket was well-worn and eminently suitable for the occasion and the terrain.  She almost always had on a hat of some kind but the one I remember most was the soft and battered ‘camp’ hat, tie strings dangling, which I rarely saw her without.

Eileen had brought her German Sheppard, Keeper, who was a very anxious dog and could be aggressive.  Eileen explained what happened and took full responsibility for the problem (due to circumstances, she hadn’t socialized him when he was a puppy).  I got a sense from her that she would spend the rest of her life and Keeper’s trying to right that wrong.  Perhaps that‘s how Muttley Crew came into being.

Eileen spent hours and hours with Keeper, trying to teach him how to cope with his anxiety and had achieved some measure of success.  At the beginning of each walk, she would keep him muzzled, but as the walk progressed, she would get him focused on his Frisbee, and then he was fine.  He sure loved his Frisbee.  I remember playing with him now and again, as he dropped the Frisbee at my feet and dared me to try and get it before he could.  It was seldom I succeeded.  I swear he laughed at me every time I tried.  Sadly, Keeper died last year and Eileen was inconsolable.  The turn-out for Keeper’s Memorial Walk in September 2011 was phenomenal, with about 40 people and roughly 70 dogs, and coincidentally, at Scotsdale Farm, the place I first met Eileen and Keeper.  It brought back good memories.

As time passed and we shared quite a number of tramps through the woods, Eileen and I had a chance to get to know each other better and found that besides our love for dogs, we also had a passion for writing.  I shared some of my pieces with her and she shared her insight with me. 

I remember how devastated she was when she was let go from the doggie daycare she worked at, after a new owner took over.  She wasn’t so much angry that she was out of work but was more concerned for the dogs she saw every day and thought, perhaps they weren’t being given the care, love and attention she had lavished on them daily.

Eventually, Eileen was able to get passed the situation and took on dog sitting on a regular basis, although with Eileen, sitting had very little to do with her days.  She spent hours hiking the woods with her charges and seemed to be happy and content.

She was always looking to improve Muttley Crew meetups and invited various experts, in various fields to come along and teach us their skills.  She came up with some creative ways to make sure all the members had a chance to go on the walks.  She always seemed to have a trunk full of dog treats and shared with all.

It was also my pleasure to have met her mom, Diane, on a number of our hikes and remember one in particular at Walker’s Woods, in Durham.  It was a hard slog that day.  Lots of snow still on the ground, which had been molded into icy, rutted furrows by horse back riders who frequented the trails.  We both were concerned about staying on our feet and keeping our ankles intact.  Being pretty well the two oldest on the walk, we brought up the rear of the pack for most of the hike. Towards the end of the walk, Diane had to pee.  Ground cover was sparse at that time of the year and I stood guard while she tinkled.  It formed a bond between us that endured.

I remember my former next-door neighbour here in Sandycove Acres telling me that she didn’t make friends with too many people anymore because they kept dying on her.  I guess after a while it gets monotonous, as well as depressing.  To me, death is much a part of life as living and when it’s your turn to go, you will.  I’m glad I could count Eileen among my friends.  My life, as so many others, is truly enriched for having known her.

Eileen was out tramping the woods with her mom and her four-legged charges when an accident occurred.  They managed to get Eileen to the hospital but she died shortly after arrival.

I’m not sure why, but Eileen had a soft spot in her heart for me and Sofie and I will always remember her generosity, especially as she had invited me (and Sofie) to share this Christmas with her and her family.  I will surely miss her.   

                                                        Eileen, Center, with the 'Hat'

                                                           Keeper & His Frisbee

                                                              Keeper's Memorial Hike

                                                              

                                         

GARBAGE 101

While I was still living in ‘The City’ (really just a town), ‘It’ brought in The Green Bin program.  Great.  More shit to remember. 

When I moved into my first house (The Town Above) after apartment living for eleven years, I was required to sort my garbage, using ‘The Blue Box Rules’.  Paper in one box and pretty well everything else in the other.  Oh, and remember to rinse the containers!  Hmm, my time and hot water – what in the heck am I paying taxes for? 

Then I moved one town north and found that the Blue Box stuff didn’t have to be sorted at all.  Oh goody, I thought, but continued to do it anyway, since I was already so well trained.  ‘Sides, the paper stuff in one box made sense, since it was mostly flat.  Almost everything else went into the ‘other’ Blue Box – styrofoam, rigid plastic packaging, egg cartons, even empty paint cans and motor oil containers.  

Then ‘They’ brought in The Green Bin.  I was not impressed and thought, “Poop on them.  I’ll just put everything in the garbage.”  It’ll be collected every week, anyway.  Wrong.  From now on, regular garbage would only be collected every TWO weeks.  Poop on me.  I could just imagine how nice my kitchen garbage would smell, after amassing it for two weeks, especially in hot summer weather.  I also knew that the assorted neighbourhood wildlife would find it especially tasty and bowed to the inevitable. Sooooo, more sorting.  Soon, I think, this’ll be a full-time job.  When will I have time to go to my ‘real’ job, you know, the one that actually pays me to work? 

I found it easier to determine what went in The Green Bin, once I figured out that organic means pretty well anything that comes out/off of you, the diaper-clad baby, leftovers (usually green anyway), and which have been taking up ‘fridge space, bacon grease (now that was tricky), and even the hair off my head and the dog’s.  The days settled into garbage regularity.

Then I moved to SCA.  What a garbage culture shock.  Back to two Blue Boxes, one for paper (fibre) and the other for what can’t go into the first.  It’s a good thing I’m not employed outside the home at the moment.  I have to go back to garbage sorting school to get things into the right Blue Box, because, according to a very sticky sticker I got in my unemptied Blue Box, which I now have to schlep back to its resting place at the rear of the house, I’m not doing ‘it’ right.  Big SIGH.  Apparently, I’ve flunked the Garbage 101 final.

I set The Blue Box down outside the patio door and peel the sticky sticker off my wrist, which is where it got stuck, as I was schlepping.   Reading the sticker, it states “We left some items behind today, as they are NON-RECYCLABLE:  and it goes on to list 12 different items.  I peer into the blue box, trying to determine where I went wrong.  Hmmm, I think, there’s a small piece of styrofoam.  Could that be it?  How could it be?  A few weeks ago, I had a HUGE amount of styrofoam taken.  Now, I’m really confused.  So, I called The Town and spoke to a very proper woman, with a great British accent.  We commiserate on the lack of Green Binning in SCA and how different I find it - that my used tissues, paper towels, nail clippings, phlegm, kitchen scraps and hair balls horked up by the cats, are no longer able to go to a natural death via a compostable landfill and may forever have to live in a dump. 

Back to the patio door I go and the British lady and I go over each item in the box and pinpoint the probable perpetrators – an egg carton, which should have gone into the paper fibre Blue Box and the small piece of styrofoam, which should have gone into regular garbage.  I mention that a rather large quantity of styrofoam had been taken previously and was informed that it had probably been a new employee who didn’t know any better.  From what she said, it sounds like he mighta got his toches kicked when he got to the dump with a banned substance.

Then I pointed out that the sticker states that ‘some items were left behind’ and mention that ALL the items in that box had been left behind.  The British woman advises me that ‘they’ don’t sort through the box - they leave everything.  “Why, then, does the sticker say ‘some’?”  There was no answer for that one.

After reviewing the remainder of the items in The Blue Box, the helpful woman lets me know that it sounds like I’ve got it the rest of it right and passes me with flying colours.  I get a gold star on the Simcoe Waste Management 2012 Calendar.  Whew!  I know I’ll sleep better tonight.

                                                                              

LIVING & SANDYCOVE

                                                                 

Oh my, I say to myself.  Is cable TV out again?  Quick, check the water.  Is that on?  Can we flush?  Sigh, after almost 3 months of living here in God’s country, you’d think I’d be used to all this crap but I’m not and I sure would like it to change, ‘cause I don’t want to get used to it.  There’s no future in getting used to it.  I have noticed a suspicious correlation between the cable TV being out and the water going off.  I’m not quite sure what that all means, but I’m sure it means something.  Does anyone out there know?

Let’s review – shortly after I moved here in early June, there was a thunderstorm, lots of marble-sized hail.  Apparently, the pumps, which supply the water for SCA, took a lightning hit.  Don’t we have lightning rods?  Maybe not.  Given the size of SCA and the number of residents, approximately 1,200 homes, sheltering a minimum of 1,842 people, assorted pets, grand children and a number of visitors, wouldn’t you think that SCA would have a fast and efficient back-up system?  Uh-huh.

Not that I would drink the tap water (it smells like a swimming pool and not one of SCA’s) and I have to wonder, if there is so much chlorine in our water supply that I can smell it as it comes out the tap, what in the heck will it do to our insides if we drink it?  But, at least I can do the dishes and flush the commode.  After a couple of hours, the cable flickers back to life and I run to the kitchen.  Sure enough, the water starts spurting and spluttering.  How odd, I think, but I’m happy that the amenities are back.

The next (bright and sunny) day, I was talking to Rich (The Mayor of Marlin Court) and asked him if he had experienced the same things as I had the night before and not surprisingly, he had.  He also had a wealth of advice on what to do (and not) so that all that wonderful iron in our water doesn’t get sucked into the hot water tank, or through the pipes.  Hmm, too late, as I think of the shower I'd had after the water came back on.  It had been an interesting shade of root beer.  Oh, well, at least I know what to do the next time. 

Then I have to wonder why this advice isn’t included, in what I refer to as my ‘Welcome’ package from SCA.  You would think that somewhere in the multitude of papers I received when I bought my house, including a lease 12 pages long, a précis of the rules and regs which I was relieved to see confined to only one (full) page, plus bunches of other papers, that they could include one page which explains the eccentricities of living here and what to do if/when…

But they don’t and I have to ask, “Why not?” 

Oh, and then there’s the wonderful local Internet company, Subsequentcom, which is aging me faster than the water problem.  I’ve been paying for HI-SPEED internet for the past three months and the only thing about it that I consider HI-SPEED, is how fast it will slow to less-than-snail pace, enabling me to vacuum, have a bathroom break, take the dog for a walk around Marlin Court and make a sandwich, all while I wait for ONE damn page to finish loading.  Oh, and try to sign in to something like e-bay or kijiji?  No freakin’ way.  That ain’t gonna happen any time soon. 

The only place I can check ahead for cable TV listings is a web site on THE INTERNET.  So how does Subsequentcom think I can access this, when A – my internet is sporadic at best and 2, takes so long to load, that when I’m lucky enough to get the site fully downloaded, that the next day is already yesterday? 

And the icing on the cake?  Let’s talk about telephone issues.  In the interest of saving money and not using Bell again in this lifetime if I can help it (looooooong story), I decided to give Magic Jack Plus a try.  Magic Jack Plus is VOIP.  For those not in the know, VOIP translates to Voice Over Internet Protocol.  Get it?  INTERNET protocol!  Magic Jack Plus is only as good as your INTERNET SERVICE.   Even Skype is not an option ‘cause it’s VOICE OVER INTERNET.  So when you use Magic Jack Plus and your internet isn’t working ‘cause there’s too much humidity in the gazillion leaves on the millions of trees, what are you supposed to do?  My cell phone time is invoiced by the nano-second.  I should send Subsequentcom my bill.

I have no idea where I’m supposed to be or when, ‘cause I keep everything on my Yahoo calendar which I can’t access.  If you’re one of the people I was supposed to get together with yesterday, today or tomorrow, I’m sorry that I wasn’t there.

                                                        

I’ve spoken to the owner, Chip, on a number of occasions, and the tech, Chuck, and while they’ve tried a thing or two to rectify the problems, unfortunately the fix doesn’t last long.  I had a message from Chuck this afternoon that the problem should be fixed for good early next week.  I hope I live that long.  But, on the plus side, not having internet (and subsequently phone), it gives me lots of time to write this blog.

The days march on and the cable goes out again.  I run to check the water.  Yep, no water. Big sigh.  This is getting monotonous.  No rhyme or reason.  No thunderstorm or lightning.   A couple of hours later, bang, both come back on.  Weird.  The next day, I was talking to the one of SCA’s other residents and the theory at the time was that a drunk driver had wiped out a pole on the 25^th.  Cable we can live without.  Again, I ask you, where was the back-up system for SCA’s water? 

A few days after that, instant replay.  This time, according to a SCA source, Innisfil Hydro had to turn off the juice in order to fix the damage caused by a lightning strike (not a drunk driver after all – hmmm, funny how localized it must have been, since we’d not had any thunder or lightning here in The Park).  Surely SCA would have been notified by Innisfil Hydro that this was going to happen?  Yes, No?  Even if no, what happened to the back-up system for our water?  It didn’t kick in at all.

 

THEN, a ‘tornado’.  Although I’m convinced our tornado was actually a micro-burst.  It was so intense and over so fast, coming out of the west, directly behind The Mayor’s house - 40 year old trees were bending in half.  I was surprised that they didn’t come all the way down.  I couldn’t even stand out on my porch and watch it.  The rain was coming in on the horizontal and hard.  I ran in the house and watched from the safety of my front door.  Mother Nature at her awesome best.  Something must have pissed her off, royally.

About 20 minutes later, the fat lady was singing and everything was eerily quiet.  Of course, the cable, water and this time, the hydro, were all out, along with most of my neighbours.  It was kinda fun in a way.  No a/c, TV or pee pee, so people were coming out.  One of my neighbours gave me and a couple of the other ladies a tour of her place and it was interesting to see how someone else had designed their compact space.  There was a sense of camaraderie in the air, neighbours standing together is small clumps, chatting.  I met neighbours I hadn’t even seen before.

Someone suggested that we take a tour of The Park, so we all piled into Ellen’s van and took a slow drive around.  So much damage.  Cars buried under huge old trees, awnings crushed, windows broken, gazebos missing their coats, the chimney at The Spoke bent like a pretzel.  It was sobering to see the result of Mother Nature’s fury and we all thanked our lucky stars that Marlin Court had been spared, this time.

This saga should end here but I just have to mention that a week or so after all the excitement, the water had to be turned off for over 5 hours to effect repairs on the main.  Sigh.  Country living.  What is it that Eva Gabor used to sing on Green Acres?  “I get allergic smelling hay…”

                                                                                                                      

 P.S.  I heard the coyotes howling last night.  The hair is still standing up on the back of my neck.

SANDYCOVE, THE NEW WILD WEST

Tonight when I was starting out on my daily constitutional, walking Sofie, I forgot to bring my stick from the house.  Knowing I had another one in the car, I did run back to get it from there.  What’s the stick for, you ask?  Why, it’s to fight off the coyotes, and all them other varmints which apparently proliferates in them thar’ hills (okay, okay, hillocks) of SCA and surrounding farm land. 

Having lived here a couple of months now, Sofie and I have finally established a couple of favourite walking routes, which we can actually navigate without having to refer to our trusty map of SCA.  Betty Carson (knowledgeable sales agent) high-lighted the through roads on my map with a couple of different colours; bright pink for east/west and lime(ish) green for north/south.  Hopefully, now at least, I can find my way home without having to call out the Mounties.  I’m glad not to have to walk with my rather large map (approx. 17” x 22” (or 43cm x 56cm)) held out in front of me like a small sail.  What a dead give away it is that I’m a Newbie!  People sitting on their porches grin and ask me if I’m lost.  I mention that I’m just trying not to get lost, amid the chuckles and sometimes outright laughter.  Gray haired people are not subtle.

The colour-coded map came about because of a scary walk Sofie and I had when we first moved here to South Park, now known (well, to me), as New Dodge City.  We’d only been here a couple or three days, and I was still unpacking my 1,000 boxes.  It was hot, too, and I figured that we’d head out around 9:00 p.m.ish for a quick one.  Well, that quick one turned into something that lasted about 2 hours (and seemed like a lot longer), and when we finally did make it home, to the safety of Marlin Court, I was pretty sweaty and we were both exhausted!  Some of that sweat was fear-inspired, I have to admit.   That dark, dark, night, we both heaved relieved sighs as I unlocked our door and we dashed into our safe haven, very happy to be home.

So, anyhoo, fending off fearless wildlife is only part of the reason I went back for my stick tonight!  Regretfully, SCA has its share of aggressive dogs and lax, careless owners.  There’s one of those who lives not too far from Marlin Court, on Halibut Drive. 

Surprisingly, the dog in question is a beagle.  I’ve met my fair share of the hound in my over 20 years of being owned by a dog and never met a mean one until now.  This one seems to have been spawned by Rosemary and oh, what a noise issues from his/her snout.  Beagles are about as subtle as a fart in a space suit.  You will ALWAYS know when a beagle lives in the ‘hood.  This one, unfortunately, does not appear to be socialized and the owner tries to keep him/her tied up outside.  The noise which issues forth on regular intervals wakes the zombies up, no prob.  You can practically see the noise waves reverberate between its’ house and the neighbours.  I am really, really, really glad that he/she doesn’t live any closer to me but I can still hear it and when he/she starts baying at me and Sofie as we walk by, I have to wonder why I don’t see the owner trying to shut the mutt up but I don’t.  AND, if only baying every few seconds or so isn’t enough, according to one of my dog walking acquaintances, Sharon, this dog has also been loose on a number of occasions and has attacked her and her small dog, at least twice.  I feel sorry for this poor dog, who’s had the misfortune to end up living with someone who doesn’t appear to care much and hope that he/she will go to a better home in a different environment.  Besides, a tied up dog in New Dodge appears to be an a la carte item, steak on a stake, on the wildlife menu.

There is no lack of stories here in New Dodge (SCA South Park) and most dog walkin’ people are a garrulous lot.  If the weather and mosquito squadrons permit, they are always ready to stop and bend your ear for a while.  Of course, you reciprocate.  Lately, and I have to think it’s because it’s starting to get darker earlier and earlier these days, quite a few of these dog-owned people have been passing on warnings about coyotes owning the streets after dusk.  Immediately, my rather fertile imagination populates New Dodge with hundreds of sinewy forms, stealthily stalking me and Sofie as we leisurely stroll along.  I see the glint of gold eyes, which follow our every foot step.  Winter and early spring, apparently, are the most dangerous of times in New Dodge, as food sources are scarce.  According to one of Marlin Court’s long time residents, there is an abundance of these scavengers, which use the back ways along the green areas and run-off ponds as their habitats and above ground railroads.  I’m not too sure what I’m going to do about letting Sofie out for her bedtime pee during the lean seasons.  How can I stop a flank attack if a coyote decides Sofie will make a great midnight snack?   Apparently, coyotes can run as fast as 40 mph (65 km/h).  What chance would I have outrunning one of those, even on a good day? 

   

                                                                           

Coyotes are not the only scourge of New Dodge, apparently there is an air borne menace, the Flying Death Squad, if you will.  A number of people have filled me in on this gruesome story, which happened last year – a little dog, white in colour (same as Sofie), was staked out in the owner’s front yard.   Next thing ya know, according to eye witnesses, a huge hawk swoops down and plucks the dog from the yard, tether and all.  It managed to hold onto it’s prey and snap the lead, carrying the little white dog off, never to be seen again.  Oh, how my heart ached to hear this one.   This could well be an urban myth, started by someone who has an aversion to dogs being tied up outside, but it does have a ring of reality to it and you can be sure, Sofie will just have to suffer inside, in the air conditioning!

  

                                                     

  

Meanwhile, I’ll just walk softly and carry a big stick!

                                                                     

                                                                       

(CHAPTER II) I NEED A GUY

No, no, not a man, ladies and gentlemen, a GUY.  Your mind needs to be a bit more north of your belt buckle or elastic waistband, whichever you’re wearing.   A ‘GUY’.  You know, someone who’s handy and can do stuff around the house, in this case, my house.  Someone, of course, who does quality work for economical (meaning cheap) rates.  Do you have someone who fits the description and you want to rent out for a few hours here and there?  Send ‘em here, please, SCA, South Park.

I had a GUY.  Actually, I started out dating this man I’ll call Barry, who eventually worked his way from being my Significant Other to just being my GUY.  We dated, on and off, mostly off I think, for about 3 years.  About my height, 5’ 8”, again for the metrically-enabled, about 1.8 meters tall, absolutely white hair (but tinged yellow from constant smoking for 50+ years) and enough for him to sculpt into a frozen coiffure, loaded with pomade and reminding me of The Columbia Ice Fields.  Every hair carefully combed into its rightful place, it would drive me wild to see Barry spend more time on his hair than I did on mine.  Everyone has a foible or two and that was his.  I used to love seeing him with his hair ‘au naturel’ and maybe just a hint of stubble on his square jaw but it didn’t happen often. 

Anyhoo, our personal relationship limped to its timely end and Barry went on to live with a woman I’ll call Bridgit, in the really north country, up Coldwater way.  Somehow, Bridgit and I became friends.  Besides having Barry in common, we were also unemployed at the same time, due to being forced out of jobs (different places) that we did well.

 

It’s great when you’re dating a handyman type of guy, ‘cause payment for their services is usually returned with a service of a different, horizontal kind.  Of course, it’s not really about ‘paying’ when you’re dating someone, it’s just the way it works out and for once, the woman comes out on top.  Stuff gets done and she has fun paying the bill.  Now that Barry and I are ‘just friends’ and he is still my GUY, I have to pay him, in the vertical, and from the pocketbook.  Having a GUY closer to home would also be a bonus.  Barry’s travel time is breaking the bank.

Someone I know and love had the courage to break out of an abusive relationship and bought her own place, a really nice mobile home in a great location on Lac St. Louis in Quebec.  Brenna’s been on a roller coaster of dips and highs for the past year and a half, and on the verge of selling out and moving into an apartment.  It’s tough being on your own, especially when you’re broke and GUYless.  Her next door neighbour has been so helpful doing stuff for her but is now planning to move.  So she decided to attempt some of the things on her own.

The gutters just about killed her.  Ten hours going up and down the ladder, heat, bugs, icky standing water, typical gutter crud, and skinned knees from the shingles, you name it, Brenna experienced it.  Despair was building, I could hear it in her voice.  Then one day, she announced she had found a GUY.  How wonderful.  Not only has she found someone who could do just about anything, he’s reasonable and mostly reliable.  Lucky duck.  Then she found another GUY.  So now she has a backup GUY.  How lucky can one woman get?  I’m green! 

So, if you know anyone who fits the bill and can be my ‘GUY’ here in South Park, Sandy Cove Acres, please let me know by ‘Adding Comment’, which can be found at the bottom of this chapter and include contact information.  Thank you in advance.

                                            

                                                               My GUY

Undercover Sandycove-r

Undercover Sandycove-r

A friend of mine suggested I start a blog about life in Sandycove Acres, aka SCA.  Hmm, I thought, why not?  It’s a good way to pass the time on this hazy, lazy Sunday afternoon.  The sun’s been playing hide ‘n seek most of the morning and fat, gray clouds spread out, obscuring the western sky.  Boredom has flicked here and there since I finished (mostly) unpacking. 

For those of you not in the know about Sandycove, it bills itself as an adult lifestyle (retirement) community located in Innisfil, Ontario, Canada.  After moving here as a young 57 and 1/2 year old, I can attest that the billing is pretty accurate.  Other than visiting grandchildren, I don’t think there is anyone here younger than me.  At least, I haven’t met one yet.  According to my knowledgeable sales agent, Betty Carson (names have been changed or at least thinly disguised to protect the innocent, and the not-so-innocent), you have to be 55 years of age to buy here.  Although, as she explained, if it’s a couple, then only one person of the two needs to be 55 or older.  The other can be a young chick or boy toy, as the case may be.  So, potentially, there may be someone in here younger than me but if so, it seems that they keep themselves deep undercover, or in this case, deep under Sandy Cover.

After being laid off from my job ‘down in the city’, I sold my house and moved here, becoming in Betty’s words, a Sandycove-r.  Of course, being a writer I launched into a rather lengthy discourse about how, when you are a Sandycove-r, you really are a Sandycover, ‘cause that’s the way the word ‘cover’ is spelled.  She listened patiently (I suppose having a lot of experience with lonely oldsters who like to talk, especially when the listening ears are new.  I eventually wound down and Betty started laughing and told me I was funny.  I hope you find me funny too.

I bought one of the new houses, which SCA has started building here, in Sandycove Acres South, which I refer to (natch) as South Park.  When the older mobile/modular homes come on the market (the usual reason being death of the owner or relocation to a retirement home, the step before the ultimate reward), The Park buys it and then demolishes it.  Then it builds a brand new house, a real house.  One with real walls and vaulted 9’ ceilings (almost 3 meters for those of you who are metrically inclined).  Mine is beautiful.  It’s on a sleepy court and backs onto green space.  Pretty well everyone on the court knows everyone else and in Sandycove, people seem to care about their neighbours and keep a watchful eye out for the older ones or those unsteady on their ‘pins’, quite unlike the place I used to live.

I met one of my neighbours, Rich, just a day or two after moving in with my thousand boxes and little else (knowing that I had to down-size from a 1,500 square feet house to one a little less than a 1,000) I had given away a lot of stuff.  A spry 70 (or so) year old, he keeps busy helping his neighbours out by doing lawn care, chugging about on his immaculate yellow and green John Deere, looking for all the world like a pro, pulling his just-as-immaculate utility trailer behind him.  Weed whacking and blowing included in his service-with-a-smile.  How terrific to find such a gem of a neighbour.  In no time he was over at my house, mowing back my new-sod-gone-wild in the front yard to a height that Sofie would pee on. 

Sofie, having grown up (and probably born) in a puppy mill, was used for breeding her whole life.  She’s a funny little dog.  Actually, she’s still learning how to be a dog and that’s after almost 4 years with me.  One of her foibles is ‘making’ on grass that tickles her tummy.  It bothers her and she’ll search for a while to find grass which doesn’t.  She was happy when the grass got tamed.  I was happy to find Rich and told him that I hope he lives forever!  He shares the hope.

After meeting Rich and then his wife, Ally, I find myself a frequent visitor on their generously proportioned front deck, which seems to be ‘The Place’ for people to congregate.  Rich explained that he had built the deck because the grass under the sprawling tree in the front yard became non-existent with all the people who came to shoot-the-poop and spend a few minutes or hours.  Their hospitality is a well-known secret and Rich seems to know-all that goes on in Sandycove.  He’s been dubbed ‘The Mayor of Marlin Court’ and it fits.

On the sturdy deck, two rows of 5 or 6 cheery red chairs face each other and usually contain 4 or 5 bodies at any given time but mostly in the afternoon.  The host and hostess relax in their 2 matching aged-cedar Adirondack chairs, well-seated on the gay white and green striped cushions. 

When you have 6 or 7 people all talking at the same time, the diverse discordance of the simultaneous conversations is bewildering.  It took me a few times before I became adept on zoning in on one, two conversations max, head rolling back and forth, reminiscent of a bobble-head doll.  Rich, a devout drinker of beer, and built like a California redwood, rises to his 6.5” or so height and makes a run for the beer fridge, with a pit-stop at the loo.  Beer in, beer out.  It doesn’t hang around long so I wonder why ‘they’ make a light beer.  Surely regular beer, which has about 150 calories per bottle, comes out too quickly for the calories to have much of an effect on the waistline? 

Rich’s greenish-blue eyes remind me of a glacial lake I saw when I was out west a lot of years ago and I’ve noticed that his eyes tend to flash-freeze when he’s angry or upset.  Luckily, that doesn’t happen too often.  Ally, a smartly-turned out blonde, is quite diminutive (natch!  have you ever noticed that the tall guys usually hook up with a petite little thing, who even has to reach up, waaaaay up to take his arm?)  I have.  Maybe the old saying is true about opposites attracting. Watch for it, and then let me know how many of these (odd) couples you spot the next time you’re at the mall.