Coffee heat rising

Wiley Comes a-Visitin’

Urban coyote

The ‘Hood is one of the northernmost outposts of a Phoenix district locally called “North Central.” The place consists largely of single-family homes on lots ranging from 1/4 to 1 full acre, with large lots watered by the city irrigation system installed when the former farmland was transformed into ticky-tacky.

LOL! Actually our houses are not ticky-tacky in the sense that more recent builds are. Mine, for example is not drywall and plaster but solid block: difficult to air-condition but too sturdy for an enterprising burglar to shove his fist through a wall.

{No kidding! That is how the burglars break and enter homes in newer tracts: they walk up to the front door; ring the doorbell; and then if no one answers, they just take their fist and shove it through the drywall. Reach in. Unlock the door. Make yourself to home!}

We have a different type of burglar hereabouts, though: a four-legged variety. We border a desert mountain preserve, and that place hosts families of coyotes. So unafraid of humans are they that we could almost call them “semi-domesticated.” They consider stray cats and cute short dogs to be gourmet fare. So…if you leave your 30-pound corgi out in the yard, she’s likely to turn up as breakfast for a distant furry cousin.

Just now, the neighbors — some of whom grow hysterical at the mere glimpse of a coyote — have been madly reporting sightings. And because neighbors — being only human — are remarkably stupid, they often fail to clean up the banks of shrubbery that serve handsomely as coyote hotels. We have one of those about four houses up the street.

No amount of heavy-handed hinting by neighbors haunting the local Facebook page has persuaded the couple on the corner to trim their shrubbery in front by way of evicting the four-legged tenants. Meanwhile, other idiots don’t grasp the concept of Cat As Gourmet Feast, so they leave their delicious kitties outside to call in the cat-loving coyotes.

Honestly. HOW has our species survived this long?

At any rate… I’ve set up a kind of coyote barrier along the top of my cinderblock backyard walls: strapped lengths of carpet tacks to the decorative block on top. This keeps the neighbors’ cats out nicely: they learn forthwith that when they jump over the wall, they get their feet punctured.

As for Wiley? Not so sure about that. In the first place, a coyote is a helluva lot tougher and smarter than a domestic cat. And…that notwithstanding, if Wiley tries to jump the wall, finds himself clinging to a length of nails, jumps down, and lands inside the yard…well, jumping back out will be highly aversive.

Not a coyote

So I’ve got to be careful every time Ruby goes out in the yard. Whenever I open the back door to let her out, I need to walk out there and look around, to be sure she’s the sole occupant. When you’re in the middle of fixing breakfast or dinner, that’s a PITA…

A…a…n…d furthermore….

Here’s what was going on yesterday evening, while Ruby the Corgi and I were doggy-walking and dodging bullets.

{sigh}

Y’know, this stuff is gettin’ old. I’m beginning to think SDXB was right; time to move to Sun City, where you can enjoy the Silence of the Mausoleum, day in and night out.

Having lived in Sun City when my parents moved there, dragging me with them and dumping me at the University of Arizona, I really, really do not want to live there again. So, when SDXB announced he was headed west, I refused to go with him. But sweartagod, I’m beginning to think that may have been a mistake.

At the time SDXB moved out there, it was fairly calm here in North Phoenix, for a big-city neighborhood. But…that’s not so true anymore. It feels like every time you turn around, along comes some new shenanigan. You can’t take the dog for a walk around the block without carrying a pistol with you.

But…my problem with Sun City is that I don’t wanna live in a mausoleum. And that’s what the place feels like. The silence of the tomb reigns. Plus you have that generation’s 1950s-style hatred of minority: the place is Whiteyville with a vengeance.

One of my friends moved out there from the East Valley, delighted at the prospect of living in a place designed for retirees. Problem is, it’s a place designed for white retirees…and he ain’t one of those. The locals ganged up on the poor guy and hounded him until he moved out!

Guess I should have warned him. But as a practical matter, it’s been over 60 years since my parents moved to Sun City. And frankly, I assumed the locals would have come into the 21st century by now. Wrong!

That notwithstanding, I find it a dreary and depressing venue. Weirdly enough, I like the sound of children playing. And even of an occasional teenager blasting the car radio as they cruise up the street. That, plus it’s a 40-minute drive into central Phoenix, where my son lives. I’d never see the guy again!

Well. You don’t have to move to a ghetto for old folks to escape the constant whiz of flying bullets. Other areas of the city are reasonably quiet and safe.

Problem is, they’re a lot more expensive than this part of town. Plus they’re further from M’hijito’s house.

I kinda doubt that I could get enough for this house to buy another house in points east. Might be able to get into a fairly tony North Central high-rise apartment…but then what am I gonna do with Ruby?

Plus…truth to tell, I love this house. It’s a couple of bedrooms too large, but otherwise it’s perfect for me.

  • It’s in a moderately safe neighborhood.
  • It’s close to my preferred shopping venues.
  • It’s easy to keep clean.
  • It has a nice pool…one that, for an exorbitant price, responds with Pool Joy to the ministrations of a hired pool dude.
  • It has gorgeous mature trees. And desert landscaping.
  • It has adequately nice neighbors.

Why on earth would I want to move?

Never a Dull Moment in Crime Central…

So Ruby the Incredibly Fierce Corgi and I go for a walk along about dark. We circumnavigate the lower reaches of Upper Richistan and then roam back to the Funny Farm. As we reach our street, I notice a cop copter circling around over the nearest intersection with Conduit of Blight Blvd, about three lots in from were we used to live.

Charming. We trot along briskly and get back to the FF before anything happens. Into s. the house. Lock the doors. Go on about our dog & human business.

Dinner consumed, we climb onto the sack and prepare to loaf before turning out the lights. And that’s when I learn, from the local Play-Nooz accessible on the laptop computer, that the ruckus down there was no mere fender-bender. The cops were trying to chase down a dangerous, armed fugitive.

Charming.

Luckily, he missed us. Otherwise instead of playing with this computer, I’d be (again!) in the middle of a hostage situation.

We should be used to this stuff by now, eh?

And I guess I am. My li’l heart is not even going pitty-pat. What? Another gun-slinging perp? BFD!

One reason I moved into this house is that my previous home was just about four or five lots down the street from Conduit of Blight Blvd. In addition to carrying all sorts of drama to our doorsteps, that thing was (still is) very noisy. So much so, you couldn’t leave a window open, security screen or no security screen. The present Funny Farm is far enough away from CofB that we don’t hear much traffic noise or a lot of weee-uu weee-uu  weee-uu  from cop cars, ambulances, and fire engines.

But…the crime rate, one has to admit, seems to be increasing. A few months ago, the kids arriving at the grade school across the street had to step around a dead body laying on the sidewalk to get onto the campus.

Now, if I had a kid, we would be sooooo gone after a performance like that…

But I don’t have a kid. I have a dog and a pistol. So we’re still here.

So far…

{sob!) Bye-bye, Amazon!

For several years, I’ve loved Amazon deliveries. A bit pricey, but the convenience of having this excellent retailer drop everything at your door can NOT be beat.

But today undid all those years of superb service. Not through any fault of Amazon, but because the ‘Hood is…well…a ‘Hood. Once or twice in the past packages that supposedly were delivered haven’t shown up. But I haven’t thought much about it: they’re cheap and I’m busy.

But today, for cryin’ out loud!

I ordered a stupid little metal sprinkler. Not expensive — yea, verily, pretty cheap. But for that very reason, it was NOT something I wanted to traipse across the city to get from Home Depot or Lowe’s.

Off to dinner with M’Hijito this evening. When I get back, here’s an email from Amazon with a photo showing exactly where their delivery person placed the package. Exactly where she or he should have placed it: good job.

Problem is: no such package appeared out there.

Translation: one of the local porch pirates must have stolen it.

One of our techie neighbors set up some cameras with which he actually recorded a thief FOLLOWING an Amazon truck, stopping where each delivery was made, jumping out, running up to the door, grabbing the package, and running back to her car with it.

I should have known better, then, than to pay Amazon to send something I could’ve picked up at the local Home Depot. But ohhhhh no! I just had to save a half-hour or 45 minutes of driving time and stand-in-line time.

Dumb, huh?

Welp. It’s not Amazon’s fault. But I can’t afford to pay for things I never receive (supposedly they’re crediting my account with a refund…we’ll see!). And when I need something, I need it NOW, not after it’s been delivered and stolen and then I’ve had to drive to a store to get it. Might as well go direct to the store: hold the time to order it; hold the theft aggravation; hold the time to report the theft to Amazon.

Too bad: Amazon has been an enormous convenience. But when convenience turns to frustration…what’re ya gonna do?

Lancaster, PA, USA – December 15, 2017: Two Amazon Prime brown boxes package delivered at a residential home front door.

 

And further ruminating…

Yes. When you’ve lived in a neighborhood long enough to become a historic fixture, your brain is filled with layer on layer on layer of memories.

Just now the adorable young father of the incredibly adorable young kids in the house behind us, spouse of the spectacularly adorable young mother, is out in the backyard mowing grass. The kids are giggling and hollering and carrying on. The sun is setting and the evening is turning to dusk.

Oh, my,… HOW Sally, the former resident of that house, would be delighted to have that lovely young family in there. She and her room-mate: oh indeed, they would be thrilled.

The two women were grade-school teachers. Old Maids. Having never married, when they met each other on the job and figured they could tolerate each others’ company, they decided to go in together to buy a house in a lower-middle-income neighborhood of lovely (ahem: terrifying) Sunnyslope.

As it developed, SDXB moved in right straight across the street after I booted him out of my house, a block to the north and a block to the west.

So it was that we became friends with the Old Maids. And what fine neighbors they were.

Sally’s companion eventually passed away. Sally, seeing the end in sight herself, sold the place and moved into an old-folkerie. Time passed. SDXB, in terror of Tony the Romanian Landlord (he who threatened the judge in the lawsuit we won), moved to Sun City. I, having lived in Sun City once and decided that was quite enough, refused to go. Instead, I got out a number of…uhm, toys…armed myself to the teeth, scared the sh!t out of my lawyers, and cooed, Tony, make my day!

One of Tony’s sterling characteristics — he has several — is that he is no fool. Yea verily: he is very, very smart. That being the case, he proved it by refraining to commit any new criminal frolics.

The dust has now settled. Tony and his lovely Pretty Daughter are deeply engaged in building their rental empire, and I’m still here. And…no one has had to make my day. ;-D

Because — of course — Tony is no fool.

Tony’s sweet and intelligent and horribly beaten-down Other Daughter lives two doors up the street from the Funny Farm. She is an excellent human being, IMHO. If I dared…if she dared…we would make good friends.

Oh, well.

The upshot is, she and I are not enemies. 😀

***

I don’t know if Tony is a good man. But I believe he is more than that: he is a great man.

Yes. In his context, he is a great man. He has accomplished feats that you and I could only fantasize about….partly because we couldn’t conceive of them and then, even if we did, couldn’t figure out how to pull them off, and partly — mostly — because none of us would be willing to work that hard.

Seriously: the things he has accomplished have simply defied belief. And if you stood back and watched him, the sheer amount of hard work he poured into those feats would boggle your little Yankee mind. He is, truly, an incredible man.

****

Is that why I’m not afraid of him?

Possibly. I’d like to say I’m not afraid of him much. I’d like to say I respect his intelligence and his ambition enough to know he’s not doing to fuck himself up.

But then there’s my Daddy. Yeah. The Daddy who taught me not to to be afraid of a helluva lot.

Who knows?

The truth is, Tony is dangerous. The truth is, Tony is too smart to engage that quality. The truth is, Tony is not gonna put all that he’s worked so hard for at risk. The truth is, my Daddy was right: stand your ground. The truth is, because Tony is no fool, he’s not very dangerous.

Bless’im.

Ohhh those beautful playing children. How I wish Sally could be here to be the melody of their laughing!

Stand your ground, Dear Daughter…

 

 

 

Lawyer, eh? Think again about that…

LOL! Last time I posted I ruminated on about how easy it would be to find a replacement for my late beloved estate (and miscellaneous other matters…) lawyer, DXH having been a prominent legal eagle here in the Valley of the We-Do-Mean-Sun.

WRONG!

DXH has been retired for so long that all his colleagues have flown the coop, too. Didn’t have a suggestion.

So it was down to the church, that Institution of Old Phoenix that holds forth in ritzy-titzy North Central. If anyone knows lawyers currently in practice, they do.

Well.

No.

They may know someone, but evidently they’re reluctant to make any recommends.

Goddammit.

So now I have no lawyer and I don’t know which way to jump to find one. And because Mike, the beloved and high-powered legal bulldog, was working on the latest iteration of my will, I have no valid will on record!

At least, I probably don’t. Mike may (or may not) have filed our new, revised will before he dropped dead. But no one knows, and I have no clue who to call at the State of Arizona to even ask whether a new will has been filed.

Godlmighty.

At this point, I’m not sure which way to jump. I actually called the County Bar Association to see if they could recommend an estate lawyer. Singularly unhelpful, thankyouverymuch.

I guess maybe the next effort will be to Google “estate planner” and start calling at random.

{gulp!}

That’s not very…reassuring.