Category: WRITING

The Sage Pointe Nine.

Previously, I wrote about the Weede family and their fusty skunk hijinx, and the story kept on expanding over time.

To recap:  In one apartment lived the matronly mother and one of her grown sons.  Across the hall lived her daughter, her husband, and their two kids.  Then one summer, the Weede family expanded their population in the Sage Pointe complex with the matron’s other son, his girlfriend, and their baby who all moved in with her.  That made a total of nine Weedes in two apartments: five people in Mamma Weede’s place, and four in the other.

With this addition came much more garbage in the dumpster.  Almost overnight, the garbage dumpster was overflowing only a couple of days after the garbage was picked up.  It was hard to say if it was only because of the three-person increase overnight in the building’s population, or not.  Some of the garbage dumped pointed to other people, so it probably was a combination of more people in the building and those other residents who were getting ready to move out (and that’s another story),

But what did point to the Weede family was the indoor pool area.  It got messier and messier with a sickening overload of beach balls, floats, and tiny plastic toys sitting at the bottom of the pool that they left, as if the pool area was theirs alone.  They wouldn’t clean up their possessions, but rather, they left their things for other residents to trip over, and they complained a lot if the pool was in repair.  La-di-da.  It even got to a point that they left their pool toys all over the common property, and one beach ball made it to the pond area:

Although their contributions to the marijuana stench in the building decreased for a while, it eventually returned.  The entire floor in the hallway was an aromatic offering that ranged from “forest‑floor funk” to “burnt tire with herbal aspirations.”  They left the elevator lingering with the aroma of greasy chicken and the tang of old tacos.  Their front doors were like portals to a different dimension, one where the ventilation systems and their filters went to die and rot.

In the end, the Weede clan became less a family and more a weather system that rolled in without warning, reshaped the landscape, and left its own peculiar sediment behind.  Their presence swelled and receded, their odors rose and fell, their toys multiplied like spores in the humid air of the indoor pool.  The areas outside their storerooms got to a point that they looked like a flea market with all the junk, furniture, and other assorted garbage left out.   And though their skunky fog ebbed for a hot minute, it always found its way back, drifting through vents and lingering in the hallways like a reminder that some households don’t just live in a building; they colonize it and make it bad for the other owners who respect neighbors.  Yet, at Sage Pointe, the Weedes were not merely neighbors.  They were an atmosphere of eccentric proportions that took over and conquered.

 

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Dead Man Dripping.

A Lesson in New Décor, a Bath, Dying, Waterfalls, and Horror.

When I lived at Whispering Oaks Condominiums many years ago, I had a cute place on the first floor.  It had two balconies, a galley kitchen, two bedrooms, two baths, and a combination dining room-living room.  It was small, decorating was easy, and I made it cozy.  All was serene until one Saturday night when the water came down in glistening sheets along the living room wall.  It came not from the condominium above, but from the condominium above that on the top floor.  The water continued flowing down to the garden condominium, below mine.

The owner was at work that evening, since he worked nearby at Marshall Field & Company department store, and he worked a late shift that evening.

Why the water was coming from that unit on the top floor, was anyone’s guess at that point.  That is, until the firemen reached the top-floor unit and found the door locked tight.  It was an ominous quiet, broken only by the sound of relentless water streaming from beneath the doorframe. With a sharp crack, they forced their way in, only to be greeted by the surreal sight of the overflowing bathtub, its porcelain edges barely visible under the torrent.  The man, naked, pale, and motionless, lay slumped against the tub’s curved back, his arm draped on the side of the tub, and a twisted grimace frozen on his lifeless face.  The scene was both tragic and bizarre, a moment frozen in time, where the quiet intimacy of a bath had turned into a macabre tableau.

The body in the bathtub was an older man, the roommate of the owner.  He evidently was drawing his bath while he sat inside the tub, died at some point, and the water kept pouring and pouring from the faucet and over the sides of the tub, throughout that unit and down to the three units below.

When all was said and done, the amount of drywall and painting repairs was enormous for all four condominium units, but insurance helped.  Repair crews swarmed the building in the weeks that followed, wielding industrial dehumidifiers and cutting through warped drywall.  The affected residents exchanged tired smiles in the lobby and hallways, commiserating over the shared ordeal.  The owner of the unit, still reeling from the news of his roommate’s passing, tried to reconcile his grief with the practical nightmare of insurance claims and restoration costs.  Each floor of the building bore its own unique scars from the incident of a soggy imprint of a life, and death, left behind.

Several months after Joe’s live-in boyfriend, Guiseppe, died in the bathtub, another waterfall occurred.  Joe scheduled carpetlayers to remove his old carpeting and install fresh wall-to-wall shag carpeting.  The residents in the general area heard the soft tapping of hammers and thought little of the work being done.  But soon after they saw it.

Water was once again running down their living room walls.  The wall was glistening with the water dripping and flowing down.

Once more, the residents living below Joe ran upstairs to see if it was his crew that caused a small waterfall.  And sure enough, it was.  The carpet layers hit a water pipe in the floor when they were reinstalling new carpet tack along some of the walls.  A hole in the pipe was punctured, and voilà!  The waterfall.

Once again, his insurance had to pay for drywall and painting repairs in the three condominiums units below him that were affected.

 

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Threads of Defiance.

A Lesson in Obedience and Conformity.

I lived in a homeowner’s association where wet towels drying on the balcony railings became the norm early on.  It was one hot summer afternoon, as I returned from work, I looked up at my building after parking my car in the lot.  There, colorful and flapping, were Ambrose and Un’iqué’s wet towels.  They clung to the eighth-floor balcony railings, the corners flipping up delicately in the breeze.  Although the colorful terry cloth towels looked pretty on an otherwise mundane beige balcony, the rules of the homeowners’ association forbade anything hanging on those railings.

But Ambrose and Un’iqué did it anyway.  Every Monday, which was wash day, their wet towels would hang until dry.  In the heat of the summer, every time the couple headed to the neighborhood pool, you could bet their beach towels would be draped across the railings after they returned to their apartment.  Over time, the towels became more than an act of defiance; they transformed into a symbol of quiet rebellion.  Neighbors began to notice Ambrose and Un’iqué’s colorful display as a sort of unspoken statement: life, with all its messiness and imperfections, could not be entirely controlled by rules and regulations.  They did it their way.

Of course, it was against the rules, by-laws, and such, but in the interest of so-called community harmony, the board of directors looked away.  It wouldn’t be nice to point out infractions, they’d say.  In reality, they broke rules, too, and it wouldn’t be right for a director on the board to be sent a friendly violation letter.

No matter that, the buildings started to look like New York City’s nineteenth century tenements.  Remember, it wasn’t all about not offending the offenders.

Soon, the monotony of the beige façades was punctuated by a patchwork of drying laundry.  Mrs. Delgado on the third floor hung out her hand-sewn quilts.  The Nguyen family draped their vibrant picnic blankets next to their toddler’s onesies.  Even creaky old Mr. Carmichael, once the staunchest enforcer of the by-laws, let his Hawaiian shirts flutter in the wind on hangers.  No one cared anymore.

The board of directors convened an emergency meeting to address what they called “The Towel Crisis.”  Yet, each time they discussed enforcement, someone brought up the sense of community the colorful fabrics had inspired.  The formerly frosty interactions between neighbors thawed, and people began smiling at each other as they passed through the hallways.

Ambrose and Un’iqué, seeing their small act ripple outward, became minor legends in the community.  And while the buildings may have resembled New York City’s old tenements, there was warmth and vibrancy to them that was cultivated that not even the strictest homeowner’s association rules could suppress.

The heck with rules!

 

2

Who Will Sit at My Table?

A Lesson in Lust and Trickery.

I’m just going to mention this now and then let it go, for it is a lesson for me for the future.  Over time, I’ve taken more discernment with people with whom I choose to surround myself.  Yet, every now and then I slipped in my judgement of who I let sit at my table, so to speak.

Oh, yes, I’ve let the wrong people into my life.  And sometimes I very imprudently let them overstay their welcome.

And for what?

Many times it was to make that other person feel good.  Well, I foolishly thought, I don’t want them to feel bad that they aren’t welcomed here, in my life.  These were people that liked me, but I knew deep down they were not the types of people I should have allowed in; they were the opposite of my own sensible values.

How stupid of me.

There are many examples I could give you, but I’ll give the most recent example of a luncheon I hosted.  I invited two people.  One of those people asked me if his current “love of his life” could come, too.  I thought about it for a bit, then assented.  All I knew about her was that she had a bunch of kids.

Okay.

Later I found out that she was married.  Still is, as far as I know.  That horrified me.  It angered my best friend.  I deeply regret allowing her to come into my home under that situation, being married to someone else.  Now, it should be no surprise to you that she is not welcomed in our home ever again.

If I would have known that she was still married, I would have replied, “Sure, she can come if she brings her husband.”

Oh, well.  Twenty-twenty hindsight, you know.

This is just one of many lousy choices I’ve made with allowing the wrong people to be around me.  Do I regret those poor choices I’ve made?  Of course I do; and who doesn’t?  Anyone who says that they don’t regret their poor choices is a fool, and a bigger fool if you don’t learn by it.  Yes, I learned a good lesson, which is to learn from those mistakes and not rush in making a decision on who belongs at the table.  Be astute.  Be guarded.

Here’s to a great rest of this year with whomever you and I decide to sit at our tables in the future.

And now, I put that person out of my mind, banished for all time.  Ciao!

 

2

Happy 250th!

Driving around town whilst taking care of errands, I waited for the red light to change.  The sun was out, the weather was pleasant, and traffic was light.  I looked to my right, and saw this interesting sight:

The New Liberty.

I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the United States and how much it’s changed.  It’s no longer a young, beautiful woman personified as Liberty, but an old guy in a wheelchair.  Little promise of a good life, but one that necessitates taking on a crushing job with little promise of advancement.  Maybe I think too much.

The light changed, and I drove off, leaving Mister Liberty to his corner.

Happy 250th!

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Rotting Fast and Faster.

A Lesson About the New World.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I would buy a head of lettuce, a bunch of tomatoes, and a box of mushrooms, or other kinds of fresh food.  They would last for a week, maybe ten days before any initial spoiling would show its ugly face.  Nowadays, that head of lettuce, bunch of tomatoes, and box of mushrooms will start spoiling three or four days from when I brought them home.  It goes for much of the produce I buy now.  Sure, the “fresh by” date might still be two weeks in the future but spoil they must.

What a rotten new world we live in!

 

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A Saturday Night in Candlelight.

A Lesson in Dating.

My best friend and I did a little something different last Saturday night for our standing date and decided to indulge in something a bit more refined than usual.  We dressed in our best clothes, he was in a black suit and tie, me slipped into a lilac silk dress.  We set off for the most elegant Italian restaurant in our area, a place that always feels like a small escape from the ordinary.

Traffic was light, which was a surprise for a Saturday night, which brought us to the restaurant sooner than our reservation time.  We parked the car and decided that since we had about twenty minutes to spare, we would take a leisurely walk in the adjoining park that is part of the restaurant property.  The evening air was cool and fresh, and the night sky held starry constellations and a full moon.  The soft lights lit our way on the curved paved walkway, and by the time we made the full circuit, it was time to meet our reservation.

We stepped through the glass-and-wood doors and entered the lounge, which is our favorite room in the entire establishment.  A carved oak bar was well-stocked and gleamed beneath soft lighting.  Together they created a warm, inviting ambience that seemed to embrace us the moment we arrived.

A poised hostess, dressed head‑to‑toe in black and adorned with a star sapphire necklace, remembered us and greeted us with a gracious smile.  She guided us into the main dining room, where we were soon settled into a high‑backed booth.  The varnished oak table covered with a crisp white linen tablecloth held tall, elegant salt and pepper grinders, and a large votive candle flickered at its center, casting a gentle glow.  We placed our drink orders, a Peroni for Best Friend, a pinot noir for me.  Our waitress brought warm slices of fresh bread accompanied by herbed olive oil and took our orders.  I was blissfully content.  Restaurants of this caliber are rare in our area, ones that have heavy silverware, substantial furniture, chandeliers, leatherette seating, and soft, unobtrusive music that completed the atmosphere.

As we settled in, we lingered over conversation until our first course arrived: a crisp, chilled salad for Best Friend and a steaming cup of Italian Wedding Soup for me. Before long, our entrées followed.  Best Friend’s pollo con verdure and my pollo alla cacciatora, were both fragrant, beautifully plated, and still releasing curls of steam.  Our waitress completed the moment with a delicate snowfall of freshly grated Parmesan atop our entrées.  Each bite was rich and comforting, and we allowed ourselves the luxury of eating slowly, savoring both the food and our company.

Then the music began.  A pianist’s gentle melody drifted through the restaurant, subtle, unhurried, and perfectly attuned to the evening’s mood.  It wrapped itself around the room like a soft ribbon of sound, enhancing the glow of the chandeliers and the warmth of our little corner.  In that moment, with good food before us and quiet elegance all around, the night felt complete with a small reminder that even familiar rituals can become something extraordinary when shared with someone dearly loved.

 

 

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The Mark of Mordechi.

There were always dirty spots on the hallway carpets and in the elevators when I lived at Sage Pointe.  At first glance, they looked like the usual suspects, perhaps greasy take‑out containers leaking through flimsy bags, or perhaps the aftermath of a dog with poor timing.  Whatever their origin, the stains remained year after year after year, since no one on the board of directors ever bothered to call a carpet‑cleaning company to shampoo the carpets.

One weekend, though, someone obviously made an effort.  A sharp smell of Resolve® or Shout® hung in the hallways, proof that some anonymous soul had tried to scrub away the blotches.  Whoever it was deserved a medal for attempting to keep the place somewhat presentable.

Then came the Saturday afternoon when I stood waiting for the elevator to reach my floor.  At last, the doors slid open, and there stood Maddee and her younger brother, Mordechi, dripping from the pool and armed with their usual assortment of floaties and bottles.  Just as the doors parted, I caught Maddee in mid‑swoop, giving her water bottle a final flourish and spraying the elevator carpet.  When I looked down, I saw she had left a large, wet “M” beside the other permanent stains.  She and her brother stepped out quickly, their faces tight with guilt and silence.

I greeted them anyway, asked how they were. “How you doing?” I asked.  Maddee’s cheeks flushed deep crimson, and she stammered and babbled through a jumble of half‑formed words as she tripped over her tongue.  She knew that I knew.

The next morning, more than twelve hours later, I rode the elevator again.  The wet “M” was still there.  If it had been water, it would have evaporated long before.  Whatever she’d squirted (soda? juice? suntan lotion?) had soaked in and stayed put.  It’s still there to this day.

Funny, isn’t it, how the Stankle kids, the offspring of Adonis the preacher man and his aromatic wife, aren’t always the paragons one might expect.  And the kids weren’t toddlers; at the time this happened she was about eleven, he was about nine.  Both were old enough to know better and old enough to choose differently.  After all, their father preached it every Sunday and Wednesday on stage.

In a condominium association like Sage Pointe, the carpets in every building told the truth long before the residents did.  Every stain, every spill, every careless squirt from a child’s bottle became part of the story we all had to live with.

Courtesy, like cleanliness, is a shared responsibility.  It’s one that begins with small choices made when no one is supposed to be watching.  And yet, as those lingering marks remind us, someone always is watching, even if it’s only God.

 

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The Ease of Dishonesty.

A Lesson in Bold Dishonesty and Weakening Trust.

I am continually taken aback by the ease with which people will boldface lie, not just to me, but to anyone who happens to be standing in front of them.  These aren’t always small white lies, but more and more they are bold, unapologetic falsehoods delivered with absolute confidence.  Lying has always existed, of course, but the past five or six years have unleashed a wave of dishonesty that feels different; bolder, more shameless, and normalized.  Of course, dishonesty is nothing new; people have been lying for centuries.  Yet something about the past five or six years feels different, as if a cultural shift has loosened whatever thin thread once held personal integrity together.  The onslaught has been relentless.

I see it everywhere.  The management company personnel for our homeowner’s association lie as if it’s part of their operating manual.  Vendors lie to secure business or cover their incompleteness.  Co-workers lie to dodge accountability.  It’s as if truth has become optional, as if it was a quaint relic from another era.

What unsettles me most is not just the dishonesty itself, but the casualness of it, the speed, the confidence, and the ease of looking right in your eyes as their lies float off their lips.  The way some individuals lie as naturally as breathing, without hesitation or shame.  It makes you question how many conversations you’ve had that were built on foundations that never existed.  It makes you wonder how many times you’ve given someone the benefit of the doubt when they didn’t deserve it.

I’m left grappling with a difficult truth: trust is no longer something that can be assumed.  It must be earned, guarded, and sometimes rebuilt from scratch.  And while I can’t control the behavior of others, I can choose to remain anchored in honesty myself because in a world where lies have become effortless, telling the truth feels almost like an act of rebellion.

In the end, what troubles me greatly isn’t just the lies themselves, but the growing acceptance of them, as if honesty has become an outdated virtue rather than a basic expectation.  I can’t control the behavior of HOA managers, family members, vendors, friends, or coworkers, but I can control the standards I hold for myself.  Choosing truth in a culture that increasingly shrugs at deception feels almost radical, yet it’s the only way to keep my sanity.  If anything, the dishonesty I encounter only strengthens my resolve to remain clear‑eyed, principled, and unwilling to let other people’s falsehoods define the way I move through the world.  But in the long run, I barely trust anyone anymore.

 

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