Every hour, on the hour, or close to it, I hear bells toll in Burlington. First there’s the United Methodist Church on College Street. What I hear is not really bells, but some mechanical or electric device. Thirty seconds or so later, I hear the same hour struck from the cupola of city hall. I like to think the interval between the chimes is our chronological separation of church and state.
Burlington is a small city and the tolling bells can be heard all over town at most hours of the day and night. It’s quiet here, especially with the college students away on summer break. Lawn mowers drone on Saturday mornings, if the weather is clear and in the evenings you can still find people out for a stroll or visiting on a front porch.
Many of my fellow citizens are dog owners and the city has a scoop law, which I’d say is observed about half the time. Pedestrians are well-advised to step lightly in parks and playgrounds, especially those designated as “leash-free zones.” I’ve always wondered what dogs think of scoop laws. None of the concepts involved are beyond the reach of the canine mind. They’re obviously familiar with their own turds and they know the humans become agitated if the turds are deposited in the house. When the humans return from wherever it is they go, the leash is snapped on and the dog is encouraged to deposit turds in a public space. When this is successfully accomplished, the humans gather the turds, put them in a bag and bring them home. Worse still, many humans will tie the turd-filled bag to the dog’s leash, where gravity will pull it down until it is swinging its pendulous weight against the poor animal’s face, as if to announce “Look what he did!” A dog’s eyes are capable of expressing confusion and shame and distress and I have seen all these emotions on the faces of canine Burlingtonians.
Our downstairs neighbor had a dog, but the two of them moved out last month, which is fine, because the woman did not heed the local scoop law, and I would be filled with apprehension on those mornings when I heard the recycling truck driving up the street and rushed out in bare feet with my blue bin.
In the evening I’ll come home to find a few empty recycling bins scattered across the sidewalk. I always study their pattern for a moment before I pick up my own. The strewn bins remind me of a postmodern I Ching, and I wonder if their spatial relation holds some prophecy for my future.
The new neighbors moved in and one of them happened to sitting on the stoop when the postal carrier arrived. It seems the mailboxes on our building are not up to code. They are not large enough, have insubstantial lids and the whole lot of them should be arrayed in a vertical fashion instead of their current horizontal configuration. Michael, my neighbor, apologized and offered to buy a new mailbox right away. No, the letter carrier said, it’s the landlord’s responsibility and warned that an official reprimand will be forthcoming. The postman stormed off, leaving Michael a bit dazed.
To me, that’s the charm of small-town life. You get to rub up against everyone’s idiosyncracies. It’s not a desert island, there are no hidden cameras to broadcast our reactions to the nation. It’s not reality television, it’s just reality and no one gets a million dollars for sticking it out. We get another day in the neighborhood and that’s more than enough reward.
In The Neighborhood
Every hour, on the hour, or close to it, I hear bells toll in Burlington. First there’s the United Methodist Church on College Street. What I hear is not really bells, but some mechanical or electric device. Thirty seconds or so later, I hear the same hour struck from the cupola of city hall. I like to think the interval between the chimes is our chronological separation of church and state.
Burlington is a small city and the tolling bells can be heard all over town at most hours of the day and night. It’s quiet here, especially with the college students away on summer break. Lawn mowers drone on Saturday mornings, if the weather is clear and in the evenings you can still find people out for a stroll or visiting on a front porch.
Many of my fellow citizens are dog owners and the city has a scoop law, which I’d say is observed about half the time. Pedestrians are well-advised to step lightly in parks and playgrounds, especially those designated as “leash-free zones.” I’ve always wondered what dogs think of scoop laws. None of the concepts involved are beyond the reach of the canine mind. They’re obviously familiar with their own turds and they know the humans become agitated if the turds are deposited in the house. When the humans return from wherever it is they go, the leash is snapped on and the dog is encouraged to deposit turds in a public space. When this is successfully accomplished, the humans gather the turds, put them in a bag and bring them home. Worse still, many humans will tie the turd-filled bag to the dog’s leash, where gravity will pull it down until it is swinging its pendulous weight against the poor animal’s face, as if to announce “Look what he did!” A dog’s eyes are capable of expressing confusion and shame and distress and I have seen all these emotions on the faces of canine Burlingtonians.
Our downstairs neighbor had a dog, but the two of them moved out last month, which is fine, because the woman did not heed the local scoop law, and I would be filled with apprehension on those mornings when I heard the recycling truck driving up the street and rushed out in bare feet with my blue bin.
In the evening I’ll come home to find a few empty recycling bins scattered across the sidewalk. I always study their pattern for a moment before I pick up my own. The strewn bins remind me of a postmodern I Ching, and I wonder if their spatial relation holds some prophecy for my future.
The new neighbors moved in and one of them happened to sitting on the stoop when the postal carrier arrived. It seems the mailboxes on our building are not up to code. They are not large enough, have insubstantial lids and the whole lot of them should be arrayed in a vertical fashion instead of their current horizontal configuration. Michael, my neighbor, apologized and offered to buy a new mailbox right away. No, the letter carrier said, it’s the landlord’s responsibility and warned that an official reprimand will be forthcoming. The postman stormed off, leaving Michael a bit dazed.
To me, that’s the charm of small-town life. You get to rub up against everyone’s idiosyncracies. It’s not a desert island, there are no hidden cameras to broadcast our reactions to the nation. It’s not reality television, it’s just reality and no one gets a million dollars for sticking it out. We get another day in the neighborhood and that’s more than enough reward.