Our next-door neighbor, fed up with storing his cars in the country, decided a few months ago to build an addition: a monstrous garage. My family, understandably, wasn’t thrilled. For one, the view outside our window would no longer be of trees and bushes but of cinderblock. For two, with a yuckier view, our house would surely lose a chunk of property value.
We thought, “Whaddya need all those cars for, doctor?”
The guy already had a two car garage, and he needed another one?!
We hoped the Community Association would stop him. At first, the Association rejected his building plan. They gave in eventually, though, and in early summer, construction began.
We’ve heard loud noises all summer. I’ve lost bushes and trees that I’ve been staring at since I was in fourth grade.
Seeing the trees reduced to neat rows of logs was hard to take. But I’ve found that it’s most convenient/healthy to cultivate a sense of fondness for pretty much everything (while at the same time, taking action when necessary/possible).
There was nothing I could do!
So, instead of being angry, I watched the doctor with fondness as he dug holes until the very end of dusk every night. This was making him very happy. I could see it. I appreciated the jolly sounds of the work crew outside my window. They were laughing and hollering all the time, and they didn't carry an air of complaint with them (as so many people carry to their jobs).
The garage will be finished this week when the work crew lays the asphalt.
And I guess I’m okay with it. Our view doesn't look as woodsy anymore, but it looks like something else, and I still feel fondness.
My neighbor's lawn–pre-garage.
You know you can't keep letting it get you down
And you can't keep dragging that dead weight around.
