Ephemerality

Since we moved here, I’ve gotten the impression that our presence has been a neighborhood disruption.  The prior owner, an elderly woman, had let the landscaping fall into mild neglect over the years.  That’s hardly her fault, but the encroaching wilderness had sent its signal to adjacent residents that the property had become a plot of wilderness–land that wasn’t owned, and could therefore be mildly encroached upon without consequence.

I don’t condemn anyone for this, as it’d be easy to say, dump firepit ashes in the honeysuckle hedgerow, or allow a brush pile to move further and further back.  So when we showed up and started gardening, we introduced a variable into this status quo.  The property lines, determined de facto by everyone’s landscaping, became more and more hazy, and more important, as we developed the property.  So in order to put the issue to rest without confrontation or hurt feelings, we got a land survey.

Ironically, that had the opposite effect.

The first to come talk about it was Diane–with whom we share a 10-foot border, and the owner of the brush pile.  She had been maintaining the area around the silver maple behind the pile, but we had suspected that the area was ours.  She asked me, directly, if she had done something to piss us off.

Keep in mind that for months preceding this event, we had dropped hints to all our neighbors, on multiple occasions, that were were going to get the survey.  Nonetheless, Diane seemed surprised.  I assured her that we were just getting a full survey done as we were putting in gardens, but that we would like the brush pile to be removed eventually.  She took the news well, having been assuaged of her fears that we were not installing an electrified fence with concertina wire, and has even since taken to burning off the yard waste.

Then I saw The Motorcyclist out talking to the surveyor.  I liked the surveyor–he was a kindly older chap from Kentucky, clearly experienced in his profession, but not imposing.  So I felt bad as I watched him humor The Motorcyclist, and went out to offer a distraction.

The Motorcyclist fits into an odd class of old-school masculine ideals.  Years back, he had been involved in a motorcycle accident and had suffered lingering damage to his foot, and (I suspect), some head trauma.  I don’t wish to speak ill of the infirmed, so I offer my prognosis matter of fact-ly.  He strikes me as a man who relished the seemingly consequence-free recklessness of manly youth, but became a statistic on when such a lifestyle goes awry.  He lives the life of a bachelor, yet maintains delusions of a Steve McQueen persona, going so far as to ride around on a 3-wheeler, or bright yellow jeep, depending on his mood; interested in finding a girlfriend but generally unsuccessful (according to one of his church friends), for after all–a handicapped middle-aged man without a career would be a tough sell to women his age.

But The Motorcyclist was concerned about his estate.  His chainlink fence between our yards had been set back several feet, due to the pipeline and the former honeysuckle hedgerow.  Previously we had discussed this region, which was his, and he expressed no desire to maintain it and had given me unofficial permission to maintain it.  And I had, eventually weeding a portion and replanting it with clover so that neither of us had to deal with the upkeep.

But the survey had revealed that more of this general region was his.  I had been mowing several feet onto his side.  Now, that the irrefutable truth was known, he developed a sudden problem with my maintenance of his property.  The concerns were justified, and I asked him how he wanted to proceed with this newfound knowledge.

In short, he didn’t want to maintain it, because he had no convenient access to it, a la his riding mower.  But, he didn’t want me maintaining it and claiming eminent domain on it later (despite my assurances that I would not do so).  After all, the extra mowing was minimal and I’d be perfectly happy with helping out a neighbor in need.  But no, he didn’t like that answer, and instead wanted to sell me the property.  I had strong doubts over the economic viability of that plan (later confirmed).  I gave him a noncommittal answer at the time, then later moved my encroaching landscaping and gardening from his side.  What he’ll decide to do remains to be seen.

The landscaper stopped by briefly,  but his recent tree-planting was spot-on.  A landscaper who knew the exact bounds of his property.  Go figure.

I worried for a time that we had upset Brian and Kelly–our family-oriented neighbors who indulge the kid.  And when I saw their daughter go out to the garden in question with a shovel, I panicked and ran over to explain that their garden was on their side and we didn’t care about our shared border anyway.  Turns out that she was simply edging, but she called her mom, who in turn called Liz, to explain that no one was upset, resulting in an amusing bit of message relays.  But after The Motorcyclist drama, I had started to worry about everything.

Ultimately, the property line was reasonably aligned with what we expected, and had the necessary effect of signaling to our neighbors that we were serious about it–though for mutually-beneficial reasons.  We certainly didn’t want to start planting in someone else’s yard.  And it’s land for which we’re paying, not to mention the property taxes, so there isn’t a good counter-argument to knowing the exact border.  Still, while getting a land survey done didn’t necessarily upset anyone, it certainly didn’t make us any friends.

–Simon