Dead Squirrels and Plumbing Problems

Photo by Owen Yancher, CC BY-SA 4.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

My neighborhood has seen quite a bit of turnover in the recent real-estate boom, most notably younger parents moving out of more metropolitan dwellings just in time for their kids to start school.  We’ve lived here almost six years, and up until a year or so ago, I still felt like The New Family.  Now, there are at least a baker’s dozen as empty-nesters are capitalizing on demand for their suburban homes and downsizing.  My kids are no longer the youngest in the neighborhood as there are a good number of babies in strollers and preschoolers in tricycles patrolling the sidewalks every day.

It’s a great neighborhood.  There is a pool with a lifeguard in the summer, tennis courts, an elementary school within walking distance, and it connects to a twelve-mile greenway for jogging and biking along a creek.  It’s a safe little enclave to raise a family—especially if you are hoping to let your kids free-range a little.  I know exactly why growing families are drawn to it; we were one once too.  But growing families tend to come with younger parents, and I’m not coping well as our subdivision’s average-age skews lower.  Despite my youthful and energetic demeanor, I’m way too old and cynical to have the kids I do.   I will abstain from elaborating on the “life experience” of their father, but suffice to say, my stepson turns 30 this year.

We have one real problem in our little slice of suburbia:  the neighborhood listserv.  Anyone can email the whole neighborhood about any issue, and anyone who chooses to put themselves on the list will get the email.  It opens a window into people’s lives that I prefer to avoid, but I stay on the list in case someone is selling last minute concert tickets or wanting references for a babysitter.  Every once in a while, there is some widely broadcast neighborhood grievance which can prove to be quite entertaining, so I hang around for those, too.

I serve as our neighborhood Social Committee Chair.  I know, I know.  Social Committee, cue the eyerolling.  I do it because it keeps me out of the running for other potential HOA offices and avoids the awkward conversation of turning those jobs down.  Which would you rather?  Chasing down neighbors to collect dues and enforcing landscape covenants or the person who hires an Easter Bunny and makes sure the fire department shows up for the 4^th of July Bike Parade?  I’ll take Social Committee for $1000, Alex!  It is the c-blocker to all other HOA involvements.

Last summer, we met one of The New Families at the pool.  As usual, we arrived with a cooler of…ahem…adult juice boxes and a wireless speaker playing 70s rock.  There was only one other family there when we arrived, and we didn’t recognize them.  They were hugging the deck around the baby pool and already playing music:  some sort of opera featuring Disney showtunes.  The mom was wearing a cheeky bikini while applying copious amounts of high-end sunscreen and the dad was actually in the water playing with his own children and simultaneously singing along to the music.  It was obvious:  these were not our people.  We moved down to the deeper end of the pool to set up out of ear shot.

Because of my Social Committee responsibilities, I went over to say hello and actually be social.  Their story was not uncommon:  kids were getting ready to start school, they needed more space, wanted to get out of the city.  The dad did something in finance and the mom was a design influencer on Insta.  I offered the parents a beer, but I was quickly rebuffed.  They didn’t drink (“too many calories”), but would “love to get together sometime and do gummies.”  Again, clearly not our people.  I said “so nice to meet you!”  and waddled my calories back to our side of the pool where I immediately cranked the Allman Brothers.

Recently, the mom in that family utilized the subdivision listserve to solicit recommendations for a “reasonably priced plumber” to install a new kitchen faucet.  From my perspective, she was advertising to the entire neighborhood that neither adult in her household could install a common household mechanical device or was willing to watch a YouTube video to figure it out.  I imagined that her husband likely felt embarrassed or emasculated, and I wondered if he was upset at her for broadcasting his lack of skills.

I often joke with people that my standards for finding a man physically attractive include whether he looks like he could fix a toilet.  Not only if he looks like he’s capable of fixing a toilet, but that he must also appear like the kind of guy who is willing to do that kind of chore.  Its unsavory, potentially messy, but highly necessary.  Shout out to my husband of going-on nearly three decades:  what the man lacks in rugged appearance he makes up for in willingness and capability.  He and I had a good chuckle about the post.  We also both agreed that it was odd that someone who fancied herself a designer believed that she could find a reasonably priced plumber in this economy.

A couple weeks later, the husband in that family also had the occasion to use the listserv and, in the process, cured me of my curiosity regarding his plumbing skills.  The email was sent while he and his family were enjoying our neighborhood playground.  Its not big by any means, but it backs up to forested greenspace and has a couple of swings and a small wooden play structure.  He confessed that he wasn’t sure “who in the neighborhood handled these kinds of problems,” but that there was currently a dead squirrel—appearing fresh!—right on the sidewalk at the park.  He was very concerned that a child might step on it or touch it, and he needed to make “someone” aware.

Had I been in town when I received the email, I would have considered walking down to the playground with a shovel myself.  In hindsight, I should have sent my boys over to pick up the dead squirrel and chase each other with it.  This is the world we are living in:  Adults overestimating the magnitude of run-of-the-mill inconveniences while being both unwilling and incapable of solving the problem.  The dead squirrel posed such an acute threat to children that the best course of action was to stand over it’s still warm body and send an email?  Why people are so convinced that it is somehow easier for other people to solve the world’s pinnacle problems–like dead vermin removal or serving on Social Committees–never ceases to amaze me.  Good grief man, what are you going to do if there is an intruder or a fire?

I took a few moments to calmly organize my response before replying:

“No one is really in charge of dead wildlife removal.  I would normally be willing to help any neighbor in need, but I am currently out of town on a hunting trip.  If you missed the trash cans sitting near the entrance to playground on your way out, have no fear.  I’m sure a coyote will grab the carcass overnight.”