Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

We've already established that I spend far too much time with my dog, but now I'm beginning to act like her.

When I hear a noise outside, I run to the window to look. If I had the right kind of ears, they would sit straight up on my head.

As a freelance writer, my workspace is my home. I'm used to the sound of planes descending as they head for Philadelphia International Airport, I'm used to the whimpering of my next-door-neighbor's dog from 8 a.m. to 3: 30 p.m. (when the kids get home from school).

I'm used to the summertime noises of children playing hockey in the street (on roller blades, if you'd believe). I'm used to the sound of sirens from the firehouse, and to the noise of cars roaring down my residential street, believing they're taking a shortcut, before they learn about the unmarked police car that likes to perch at the stop sign.

But any other sounds, and Una and I go on the alert. We don't like new noises. We must investigate. If it's a stranger we just might bark.

This morning, I was surprised to hear the noise of a lawn mower right outside my house. I was surprised mainly because my landlord had mowed my lawn and trimmed the hedges yesterday. So it seemed odd that he would be back so soon.

And then I heard voices. He was talking to someone? My landlord always mows the lawn alone.

Una let out a soft warning bark. It's the kind of noise that you make in class when you've fallen asleep and you're trying to prove that you're still paying attention: "I'm awake."

We run to the windows. She, being too short, can't see out. She ran to the front door and peered out the glass at the porch. She barked again, for good measure.

I got a full view of the action outside: two men, mowing the lawn and pulling weeds at the abandoned house next door, empty for nearly a year. The neighborhood gossip is that the original owner died and when his son took over, he stopped paying the property taxes. The municipality took possession and was supposed to have a sheriff's sale. The sign sat out front for months and then was removed. The tenants moved out, leaving behind a smoke-stained, dirty apartment filled with broken objects they hadn't bothered to remove.

A couple months later, someone broke a window. The municipality came by and blocked it with a piece of muddy plywood. I put a rock in front of the broken screen door, which bangs in the wind. Weeds grew. Grass grew. It began to resemble the sort of houses my friends would dare me to enter but which I'd shy away from, afraid of floors caving beneath me.

So today, I was surprised but pleased to see these two men doing yard work. After I finished my morning assignment, I took Una outside, for the excuse to say hi. She stared at them uncertainly, her ears perked up. I asked them if they owned the place, and they said they'd owned it "for awhile now" but had finally decided they'd better start fixing it up. They said that the neighbors would certainly appreciate their efforts, and I agreed.

I didn't ask them what their plans were, but from what I've seen it would take them quite a bit of work to make the place ready for new tenants. Una and I don't know how we feel about that. New neighbors mean new habits, new time schedules, new noises.

We may be running to the window an awful lot.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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