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Maplewood, New Jersey

 The back road I live on is like a large family -- a family where everyone hates one another.


Do you know the scene in "Footloose" where it's revealed that no one in the town can opt to dance -- because the old meanies have legally banned dancing? I have one of those meanies in my life. She is a dinosaur, and she writes to the back road to complain that our road-maintenance funds are misused as "a party war-chest." Too many parties! No one responds to this puzzling screed, so then the screed gets reissued, and no one responds, and all of this occurs once again.

I don't know where these parties are happening; if they're happening, I'm not invited. 

Another source of tension is the "put-up-a-sign" camp. We have a group of Pollyannas who believe that any big problem can meet its match through a well-placed sign. "Don't Speed." "Don't Drive Over Leo's Garden." "Don't Visit Here If You're a Large Truck." Inevitably, the pragmatists say, "Signs don't work." And the Pollyannas push back: Surely an angry, underpaid truck-driver would pause, read a polite (and attractive!) sign, and reschedule his tasks appropriately? (I'm with the pragmatists here.)

My favorite dickish neighbor is Krysia, who has now moved. Krysia felt overwhelmed by life -- and her neediness was symbolized by a large, broken-down car that she had deposited in a coveted parking space. The car didn't move for many months. One morning, Krysia sent a mysterious email, asking "for the aid of six strapping, young men, at exactly noon." Hours passed. At one PM, Krysia wrote again: "No men arrived at my door, so I can never move my dead car. I'm relocating to South Orange. The car is your problem now."

I miss Krysia, to this day.

It's a little sad when the crazy emails trickle off -- but I know I need only wait a bit, and someone's dog will "maul" the lawyer over on Walton.

To neighbors! To life!
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