The best neighbor in the world


It’s a good thing we adore our next door neighbor, Bert, because for all practical purposes, he and Olof and I live together.

Sixty-five years ago, an obviously inebriated architect chose to ignore the collective 19,000 square feet of our two lots and build two houses a mere 10 feet from each other. Worse, the houses are oriented so that rather than being parallel, our houses face right into each other. I’m trying to even imagine how any of this worked before 1955 when a six foot fence and a Japanese privet hedge were installed that created at least the illusion of any privacy.


Fortunately for us, the neighbors who have inhabited this house, have, bar one, been wonderful — a PSA pilot and his white go-go-booted flight attendant wife, then for 25 years a lovely spinster school teacher who was either hard of hearing or driven to defensive deafness by the 150-decibel activities of our kids directly under her TV room window.

The next folks (see “bar one,” above) turned out to be drum-playing house flippers. (I keep thinking that if I just changed the first letters of that phrase I could make it sound really obscene). There was nothing they liked better than having the family over on a Sunday afternoon and playing drums for seven straight homicide-inducing hours. They might as well have been playing in our living room, as among the many stupid things they did in their brief (but still over-stayed) tenure was remove all the sound-blocking foliage between our two homes, and also put in master bedroom windows on the side of the house facing us.

There was a good reason no windows were put in on that side originally. Suddenly there was no conversation in that bedroom, never mind other activities, that we were not fully, completely, and occasionally vomitously privy to.

When they flipped the house to the hunky, wonderful, single Bert, he wasn’t initially aware of the lack of auditory privacy between his bedroom and our home. But we were ultimately able to subtly, if unorthodoxly, communicate this to him. (I even won a Press Club award for that column!)

Our houses are truly in such close proximity that in the summer when everyone’s windows are open, if Bert sneezes, we say “Gesundheit.” I always know when the Yankees are on, and on a play-by-play basis, how they’re doing.

Being a hunky (I really can’t emphasize this enough) 6’4” athletic guy, we often get strange sound effects from the other side of the fence, the origin of which provide Olof and me with many hours of cheerful conjecture in our otherwise dull and boring lives. One Sunday morning as we read the paper out on the patio, we could hear the sound mere feet away of something (someone?) being horrifically beaten. Hopefully not his lovely girlfriend, Diane? Should we be taking notes for our subsequent interviews on Dateline?

“Well, Lester, we first suspected that Diane was buried under the house after …”



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