NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH TOO CLOSE TO HOME?

A neighborhood watch group creates a bond.

People looking out for the best interest of others?

That’s the glue holding communities together.

But things get a little sticky when they turn on you.

It started with walking the dog.

My big dog goes on a frisky rampage if she doesn’t get her miles in.

To keep the time in my favor, we walk up and down hills to wear her out.

One day we were near the local pasture looking at chickens and llamas and goats, oh my.

And Frosty the white stallion.

They looked at the dog, the dog looked back, all on the same animal page.

We walked into the neighborhood, passing an older man kneeling down to weed a small patch of yard.

Wearing a red University of Oklahoma hoodie.

An tall thin man in school colors other than Oregon green and gold, or Oregon State’s black and orange?

We chatted a moment. He was a retired Sooner Nation administrator who missed Norman, OK and his pals. He was . . .

Stuck In Oregon.

2

He was quite articulate about his feelings.

He didn’t like Oregon, nothing about it, except for his kids and grandkids who he wouldn’t see as much if they still lived in Oklahoma.

At least not as much as his wife would like to see them.

My man was living the cliche of ‘Taking one for the team.’

I admired him. I didn’t mention The Game.

While we talked a lady, neighborhood watch or watcher, opened her front door, phone in hand, and shouted from across the street,

“ARE YOU OKAY?”

She wasn’t talking to me.

Apparently I was a threatening menace, which I took as a complement.

To her I was white haired white man hanging around just a little too long.

My guy stood up and waved his thanks.

Me: Do you have any more Oklahoma sweatshirts?

Him: I have them all.

Me: Lookin’ good.

That was enough and I moved on.

I haven’t seen him since.

Curbing The Neighborhood Watch

Because I could seem menacing at 6’3″ and 227 lbs of cat-like grace, I take the initiative in social interactions.

I cross the street at night if I see someone walking alone. I don’t care who it is, I’m stepping away from problems.

When I paid cheap rent in sketchy neighborhoods I was always crossing the street to avoid situations.

Two people talking on the sidewalk?

Cross the street but make it look natural, not fleeing in terror.

Four people on the sidewalk?

Turn the corner and cross the street like you know where you’re going. And pick up the pace.

My apartments in Philadelphia during my Army days, and Brooklyn apartment from my Eugene to Wilmington to Brooklyn to Portland days, were busy.

The city was in full stride right outside the front door.

A stream of people flowing down the subway stairs in the middle of the sidewalk; a block long line of factory workers taking a smoke break.

I crossed those streets until I lost the feel of the neighborhood watch on me.

By then they knew me.

The Baby Walker

I’ve lived in the same house twenty years.

Far, far, from the east coast mega-cities to just outside Portland and a mile away from anything, I walk around with the idea the neighbors know me over that time.

Because of the dog, I’m walking enough to buy new shoes, the ones designed for 100 mile race runners.

Call me an ultra-marathon dog walker? Not yet.

Along with the dog I also take walks with my toddler-grandie.

So there I am, on my street, in my neighborhood, my grandkid on a tether.

I catalogued it among many other memorable moments of family bliss with baby.

We walked down the street.

On the way back up I saw a neighbor talking to a young man at his door.

The kid walked toward me, big salesman smile.

We talked while baby splashed in a rain puddle with her yellow boots.

The man from the house he’d just left returned to the door and yelled,

“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”

He wasn’t talking to me.

Now I’m a menace walking a circus dog, and a small child?

A menace to old and young alike?

I’ll take it, and cross the street as a courtesy, but not taking my side in my neighborhood?

Where’s the loyalty?

Asking the stranger if he was okay, not me, the old guy walking a baby?

I’m sixty-eight, not a young thug, not lurking on the outskirts of town.

I force-march a dog and follow baby where she goes to stomp water and kick rocks.

Neither includes casing the joint, for f#ck’s sake.

But it’s enough to make BoomerPdx after yesterday.