It all began last Sunday, when the tires went out.
My buddy made sure it was garbage day Monday, but by the end of the day the trucks had come and gone, but the four tires remained, stacked on our lawn. Apparently they don't take tires.
What to do?
While we pondered and made phone calls, we watched from our front room/ office at the reactions of passersby to our sculpture of rubber. We live on the corner of Lyon and Gilmour in Ottawa and, in addition to The Beer Store Parade, plenty of interesting folk stroll, rush, and chat past our window everyday.
On Tuesday morning, we noticed a small boy -- maybe four (at least taller than four tires) -- stop and stare down the recess created by the four tires. He stood there awhile, and eventually his father came to look. We saw them nod in agreement, and we *thought about* running out and telling them they were free for the taking. But then they were gone, and we were left with our curiosity.
When it got the better of us and we went to check things out for ourselves, we saw that someone had put a slice of pizza down there. Just a few bites gone.
Were they coming back?
You don't usually see largely-uneaten pizza on the street. Were they looking for a garbage can and thought this the next best thing?
Does Ottawa need more garbage cans?
Later that day, our landlord came to mow the lawn. Tires moved to sidewalk (no boulevards on Lyon). Following this development, we garnered a few nasty looks from our neighbours in adjoining townhomes, and we remembered just how ugly tires are.
On Wednesday, the tires had been moved again. This time into two stacks of two. I believe this was done on behalf of the local squirrels, who had now broken the pizza slice in two with their nibbles.
The status of the tires remains unchanged Thursday, but for some glances ... and increasing guilt on our part. Ottawa sure is beautiful this time of year, what with the blossoming, lush trees, the multi-coloured tulips and the flurry of folks enjoying the warm, sunny weather.
Whose tires are those??
On Friday morning, I looked out the front window with glee: two tires gone!
"Should we put a sign out? 'Take the rest?" my roommate asked. Hmmm ... we wondered. Is there a resale or recycling value for tires? Hopefully...
Just then, a guy on a bike dressed in a reflective vest stopped in front of our house. Wouldn't you know it, he draped one tire on each of his handles and rode away, barely wobbling. Gone are the tires!
As a final chapter, and a nod to our neighbours, the next-door dog owners came by and, pooper-scoop style, bent down and picked up the pizza remains so their beautiful huskies would not be tempted to mow down gone-bad people food.
This whole experiment made me realize my love for a few things: our neighbourhood, Ottawa in the springtime, freelance writing that lets me stay at home and watch the outside world while I work, and the way spontaneous intentions of others can remove guilt and solve problems.
Showing posts with label neighbours. Show all posts
Showing posts with label neighbours. Show all posts
Friday, May 16, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Meeting the neighbours
Today's the day! We're going over to the neighbours tonight, at 8:30 p.m., to crash their book club and *hopefully* make new friends.
For some reason I'm placing a lot of importance on this event—-I canceled plans with a friend I haven't seen in months and I'm now basically counting the hours.
Admittedly, I don't have much of a social life and I love things that are free. But here's one more attractive quality of tonights rendez-vous: it's next door!
One thing I love about living in a small town is that everything is either really close, or unthinkably far (as in, you need a car to get there). From Molokai, to rural Japan, to ski resorts in B.C...I've always found a comfortable vibrancy in communities that have barely enough entertainment venues to sustain a night life.
With slim pickins', we're forced to frequent shadey bars and sketchy taverns, make buddies with locals (albeit sometimes out of fear), open up to happy hour regulars, and generally believe deeply in our own basic need to socialize...cause there ain't no In Da Clubs Columnist telling us this is the place to be.
It's in these same small towns that I've had the best relationships with my neighbours.
Nowhere was this more true than in Whitecroft, B.C., a little hamlet at the base of Sun Peaks Resort near Kamloops.
The place is all of one mile around. No CBC coverage. Nothing in the way of commercial enterprises (though I think one failed condo development is now being used as a Bed and Breakfast).
There were more dogs than people, and both ran wild.
Packs of canines ran and howled through the night.
Gangs of ski bums wandered in search of weed.
And if you had a fire in your backyard --generally big strips of land leading into the centre of 'town'--be prepared for every Whitecroftian to show up.
Toilet paper was sometimes an issue, but the general consensus was 'the more, the merrier.'
It was also seen as a way to move the action off the hill, the mountain resort that paid our bills--barely--and then took us for what little remained via food and booze. Besides, moving up and down the mountain was always a drag. Better to lose a couple cheap cans to overly-familiar neighbours than to pay three times as much to party ... especially when you know your boss is reaping the benefits of your hangover.
I shouldn't say boss. Employer.
My boss was all about the in-house parties, organizing monthly potlucks for our department that were the talk of the town.
I remember clearly when he first gave me the low-down on these events. Rob, the lift operations manager, sort of took me under his wing, we'd gone to the same Ski Resort Ops college, and I was asking him safe, well-informed questions about schedules and visitor demographics. But I think he saw right through me: I wanted the low-down.
He told me they're always a riot, a great way to get to know people and rock it out in our snowpants.
And what a rockin good time they were! Outsiders vied for opportunities to stop by; word spread fast about locations; the 'what would you bring to a potluck' question became a stock question for new recruits.
To tell you the truth, I'm a bit sick of potlucks now.
I just want some easy-to-follow directions to a social outing, and a place to borrow an egg if I get half-way through a recipe. But you never know, with this weeks run-in with the white teeth (see former post), maybe karma is on my side and I will have a fortunate, fated encounter ce soir.
So I'm probably idealizing tonight's event, but I'm still excited. Just an hour and a half to go...
For some reason I'm placing a lot of importance on this event—-I canceled plans with a friend I haven't seen in months and I'm now basically counting the hours.
Admittedly, I don't have much of a social life and I love things that are free. But here's one more attractive quality of tonights rendez-vous: it's next door!
One thing I love about living in a small town is that everything is either really close, or unthinkably far (as in, you need a car to get there). From Molokai, to rural Japan, to ski resorts in B.C...I've always found a comfortable vibrancy in communities that have barely enough entertainment venues to sustain a night life.
With slim pickins', we're forced to frequent shadey bars and sketchy taverns, make buddies with locals (albeit sometimes out of fear), open up to happy hour regulars, and generally believe deeply in our own basic need to socialize...cause there ain't no In Da Clubs Columnist telling us this is the place to be.
It's in these same small towns that I've had the best relationships with my neighbours.
Nowhere was this more true than in Whitecroft, B.C., a little hamlet at the base of Sun Peaks Resort near Kamloops.
The place is all of one mile around. No CBC coverage. Nothing in the way of commercial enterprises (though I think one failed condo development is now being used as a Bed and Breakfast).
There were more dogs than people, and both ran wild.
Packs of canines ran and howled through the night.
Gangs of ski bums wandered in search of weed.
And if you had a fire in your backyard --generally big strips of land leading into the centre of 'town'--be prepared for every Whitecroftian to show up.
Toilet paper was sometimes an issue, but the general consensus was 'the more, the merrier.'
It was also seen as a way to move the action off the hill, the mountain resort that paid our bills--barely--and then took us for what little remained via food and booze. Besides, moving up and down the mountain was always a drag. Better to lose a couple cheap cans to overly-familiar neighbours than to pay three times as much to party ... especially when you know your boss is reaping the benefits of your hangover.
I shouldn't say boss. Employer.
My boss was all about the in-house parties, organizing monthly potlucks for our department that were the talk of the town.
I remember clearly when he first gave me the low-down on these events. Rob, the lift operations manager, sort of took me under his wing, we'd gone to the same Ski Resort Ops college, and I was asking him safe, well-informed questions about schedules and visitor demographics. But I think he saw right through me: I wanted the low-down.
He told me they're always a riot, a great way to get to know people and rock it out in our snowpants.
And what a rockin good time they were! Outsiders vied for opportunities to stop by; word spread fast about locations; the 'what would you bring to a potluck' question became a stock question for new recruits.
To tell you the truth, I'm a bit sick of potlucks now.
I just want some easy-to-follow directions to a social outing, and a place to borrow an egg if I get half-way through a recipe. But you never know, with this weeks run-in with the white teeth (see former post), maybe karma is on my side and I will have a fortunate, fated encounter ce soir.
So I'm probably idealizing tonight's event, but I'm still excited. Just an hour and a half to go...
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