Won't You Be My Neighbor?
Jun. 22nd, 2018 03:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
captainsblogThat subject has several meanings this week:
* The new film about the man in the icon.
The one that just premiered here is a pure documentary, not to be confused with the "biopic" about him starring Tom Hanks which is due out next year. I'm looking forward to both; Neighborhood came to public television (still known then as NET- the PBS moniker came later- but permanently remembered by those original initials on the set of the show) in 1968, a year before Sesame Street. I was eight years old when Fred first put on his sneakers and took the trolley; a year later, I was a much cooler nine and wouldn't have anything to do with Muppets. But I still watched Lady Elaine and King Friday XIII and Donkey Hodie (dude did like a good pun), and learned a lot of life lessons from the man. Later, it became cool to make fun of his genuineness and warm heart, with Eddie Murphy among those skewering him and me, of course, gleefully copying the ironic icon when it showed up a few years ago (and it's quite real). He was probably still in PBS reruns when Emily came along, but with so much other clutter on the channels by then, I'm sure she does not remember him as fondly as I do. Won't you join me in these memories? Sher. I knew yew kewd.
* Our neighbors to the south- and, for different reasons, to the north.
I only had two court appearances this week. Monday's was meh; Wednesday's proved weepy, and it had nothing to do with my case, but with the news of the previous day or two- that our supposedly advanced and compassionate nation was separating children, even infants, from their parents in the name of "zero tolerance." What hit me about it that morning was walking into the Federal Building in Rochester, as I've done many mornings before, with a mother pushing a stroller in front of me. I then realized something I've also always known- the building hosts a day care center. And to get there, after clearing security, you have to pass four beady little eyes on the way down to the play area:
We had enough separation anxiety leaving our child at a day care center every workday from six weeks to five years of age; I just couldn't imagine putting our child, any child, in the care of these madmen. (Ah, but don't worry, says Foxsucker News: it's not like we're doing it to kids from Texas or Idaho.)
Later in the day, the Cheeto announced, with great fanfare, that he's solving the problem. Yay! All Hail Drumpf! But there's still zero tolerance, and no still no accommodation for asylum seekers, and still cages and tents, and still....
All this came a couple of weeks after the same statesman went after our nearest and dearest neighbour to the north, saying horrible things about their leader and imposing punitive tariffs against them which he can do solely in the name of national security. Pressed as to the security risk, he actually cited Canada burning down the White House during the War of 1812. To which I replied at the time, No, they didn't- it was the British, who they were not independent from yet, although I do kinda like the idea if they could somehow trap him inside.
Can we leave the Land of Make Believe now?
----
* The literal neighbors.
It's painful. The constant barrage of horrible news from DC, the courts, the world. Still, you have to follow the best of examples, whether that's Jesus, Buddha or Fred Rogers. This week, I found only one real way to do that.
This house is less than ten doors away from us. Its front lawn has been overgrown for weeks- highly unusual among the Stepford sculptors of perfect weed-free greens around here. We know the people across the street from the house: they told me the owner's gone into a home, and the kids (who live in Florida) have promised to "take care of it" but, so far, nothing. I told the neighbors last week I was debating either calling the town (who will mow it and bill the owner's taxes for it) or just putting my own damn mower where my mouth was.
Bill, across the street, chose earlier this week to do the former, but they hadn't been by as of yesterday morning. (He has a lawn service himself, and no mower, so he couldn't do it.) But yesterday morning was gorgeous, and I had no court or morning appointments, so I just loaded my teeny electric push mower into the hatch of JARVIS and started the job. I got maybe a third around before the battery drained down to the point of futility.
That's my work to the left of the drain; I basically worked a square around it, reverting to my original mowing training. I wasn't imbued with many skills in the home improvement or maintenance departments, but I was considered competent enough to mow the postage stamp of a front lawn in front of my all-childhood home in East Meadow. (The back had a pool and patio taking up most of it, so there was even less to do back there.) Once, when I was maybe 13, I was hired out to mow a lawn of a friend my mother met through working as an elections inspector. They were mortified by how I'd been taught to do it, and I was not asked back to make another five bucks the following week.
I've gotten better over the years, but we've never had that big of a lawn and have never had more than a gas or (now) electric push mower; I see owners and lawn service contractors tooling around near us on John Deere tractors on lots not that much bigger than ours and it makes me giggle. Still, not a one of them bothered to put a dent in their neighbor's lawn before I finally went out and got it going; by the time I checked it this afternoon, someone (another guilty soul? the kids? the town?) had finished the job:
Now we'll see if anyone keeps it up from here on out. Maybe even anyone other than me. But we won't find that out until.... tomorrow.
* The new film about the man in the icon.
The one that just premiered here is a pure documentary, not to be confused with the "biopic" about him starring Tom Hanks which is due out next year. I'm looking forward to both; Neighborhood came to public television (still known then as NET- the PBS moniker came later- but permanently remembered by those original initials on the set of the show) in 1968, a year before Sesame Street. I was eight years old when Fred first put on his sneakers and took the trolley; a year later, I was a much cooler nine and wouldn't have anything to do with Muppets. But I still watched Lady Elaine and King Friday XIII and Donkey Hodie (dude did like a good pun), and learned a lot of life lessons from the man. Later, it became cool to make fun of his genuineness and warm heart, with Eddie Murphy among those skewering him and me, of course, gleefully copying the ironic icon when it showed up a few years ago (and it's quite real). He was probably still in PBS reruns when Emily came along, but with so much other clutter on the channels by then, I'm sure she does not remember him as fondly as I do. Won't you join me in these memories? Sher. I knew yew kewd.
* Our neighbors to the south- and, for different reasons, to the north.
I only had two court appearances this week. Monday's was meh; Wednesday's proved weepy, and it had nothing to do with my case, but with the news of the previous day or two- that our supposedly advanced and compassionate nation was separating children, even infants, from their parents in the name of "zero tolerance." What hit me about it that morning was walking into the Federal Building in Rochester, as I've done many mornings before, with a mother pushing a stroller in front of me. I then realized something I've also always known- the building hosts a day care center. And to get there, after clearing security, you have to pass four beady little eyes on the way down to the play area:
We had enough separation anxiety leaving our child at a day care center every workday from six weeks to five years of age; I just couldn't imagine putting our child, any child, in the care of these madmen. (Ah, but don't worry, says Foxsucker News: it's not like we're doing it to kids from Texas or Idaho.)
Later in the day, the Cheeto announced, with great fanfare, that he's solving the problem. Yay! All Hail Drumpf! But there's still zero tolerance, and no still no accommodation for asylum seekers, and still cages and tents, and still....
All this came a couple of weeks after the same statesman went after our nearest and dearest neighbour to the north, saying horrible things about their leader and imposing punitive tariffs against them which he can do solely in the name of national security. Pressed as to the security risk, he actually cited Canada burning down the White House during the War of 1812. To which I replied at the time, No, they didn't- it was the British, who they were not independent from yet, although I do kinda like the idea if they could somehow trap him inside.
Can we leave the Land of Make Believe now?
----
* The literal neighbors.
It's painful. The constant barrage of horrible news from DC, the courts, the world. Still, you have to follow the best of examples, whether that's Jesus, Buddha or Fred Rogers. This week, I found only one real way to do that.
This house is less than ten doors away from us. Its front lawn has been overgrown for weeks- highly unusual among the Stepford sculptors of perfect weed-free greens around here. We know the people across the street from the house: they told me the owner's gone into a home, and the kids (who live in Florida) have promised to "take care of it" but, so far, nothing. I told the neighbors last week I was debating either calling the town (who will mow it and bill the owner's taxes for it) or just putting my own damn mower where my mouth was.
Bill, across the street, chose earlier this week to do the former, but they hadn't been by as of yesterday morning. (He has a lawn service himself, and no mower, so he couldn't do it.) But yesterday morning was gorgeous, and I had no court or morning appointments, so I just loaded my teeny electric push mower into the hatch of JARVIS and started the job. I got maybe a third around before the battery drained down to the point of futility.
That's my work to the left of the drain; I basically worked a square around it, reverting to my original mowing training. I wasn't imbued with many skills in the home improvement or maintenance departments, but I was considered competent enough to mow the postage stamp of a front lawn in front of my all-childhood home in East Meadow. (The back had a pool and patio taking up most of it, so there was even less to do back there.) Once, when I was maybe 13, I was hired out to mow a lawn of a friend my mother met through working as an elections inspector. They were mortified by how I'd been taught to do it, and I was not asked back to make another five bucks the following week.
I've gotten better over the years, but we've never had that big of a lawn and have never had more than a gas or (now) electric push mower; I see owners and lawn service contractors tooling around near us on John Deere tractors on lots not that much bigger than ours and it makes me giggle. Still, not a one of them bothered to put a dent in their neighbor's lawn before I finally went out and got it going; by the time I checked it this afternoon, someone (another guilty soul? the kids? the town?) had finished the job:
Now we'll see if anyone keeps it up from here on out. Maybe even anyone other than me. But we won't find that out until.... tomorrow.