Empty Houses

History is rhyming again.

Our next door neighbor moved out a few months ago. I’ve talked about him more than once in these pages. He’s the guy who worshiped the sun every morning, believing sunlight to be a physical manifestation of God’s love. I’d often see him standing in his front yard in the morning, eyes closed, arms in circular motion, taking in sunlight.

He’s also the guy who gave over his life to taking care of his dying dog, Aja. In years past, they’d play catch with a tennis ball in that same front yard. Aja was clearly very old, but she’d lope after the ball on arthritic legs and dutifully return it. By the end, Aja was fully blind, and no longer chasing balls. My neighbor would carry her from spot to spot, doggie bed to food bowl to lawn, every day. She would lay on the lawn, taking in sunlight, much like her master, as he sat next to her. He was convinced she was healing (with the help of sunlight), and would eventually regain the ability to walk. I almost believed him. But while love and faith are a powerful one-two punch, they are no match against the passage of time.

A home for sale in Pueblo, Colorado.

Aja died. My neighbor mourned. I did too.

The house he lived in was owned by his daughter. She didn’t live there, but visited often. Around the same time as Aja was dying, she told my wife and I they were selling the house (don’t get me wrong, she’s not the bad guy in this tale). I don’t know if the timing had to do with the dog, but I’d be unsurprised if it did. He loved that dog, and his daughter loved him. She may have waited until the dog passed before putting the house on the market.

He held a series of garage sales every Saturday, selling his possessions, with diminishing crowds every weekend. I’d wander over to peruse what he had for sale, and bought a few things (I got a very cool telescope from one of his earlier sales).

He told me he was moving to Montana to go live with an old girlfriend. I was, to be honest, a bit skeptical, but sure enough, a few weeks later a woman pulled into the driveway in a big truck with a horse trailer attached. She seemed nice enough, with kind of an ex-biker chick vibe about her. She was friendly and she worked hard. Day after day they brought packed boxes out of the house and loaded them into the trailer. I’d ask them when they were planning on leaving and they always said, “In a day or two.”

At night they tended to hang out on the front steps of the house listening to right-wing talk radio, smoking cigarettes, drinking tea (I think it was tea). It all felt very chill and calm and optimistic. My wife and I said hi if we passed by them, taking out the garbage, getting the mail, or grabbing a peek of the setting crescent moon.

One night they said, “We’re leaving tomorrow.” We all exchanged hugs and best wishes. We told stories about memorable road trips. Goodbyes were exchanged. It was surprisingly emotional.

They were still there the next day, still packing the trailer, into the afternoon.

I avoided them while getting the mail. Our goodbyes had been so satisfyingly final, I didn’t want to break the spell. And the day after that: still there, still packing. I quit avoiding them. I asked, and they told me they were getting the last few details nailed down, but were definitely leaving the next day. And then, the next morning, there they’d be, horse trailer parked in the driveway. It became kind of a running joke between my wife and I. Day after day, this went on.

And then, one morning, the horse trailer was gone. No fuss. Just gone.

A For Sale sign sprouted on the front yard shortly afterward.

No one has moved in yet.

In 2008, we lived in a different neighborhood, in Pueblo, near the community college. We had a different President: George W. Bush. We were waging a different illegal war: Iraq, not Iran. The housing bubble had just popped, largely as a result of a wildly risky set of deregulations (see April 28, 2004) and extreme greed. Millions of Americans lost their savings, though the banks were dutifully bailed out by the government.

We lost two neighbors to foreclosure that summer. One was next door, one was a few doors down. The next door neighbor would make our girls homemade Halloween baskets every Halloween. He had about a million dogs (six rescued greyhounds, actually) that were loud as fuck in the morning and nearly always woke me up. I wasn’t overly fond of them, but our girls loved those dogs like they were our own. The dogs moved out when he did. He’d rescued the dogs, but couldn’t rescue the home.

The neighbors down the block had a corner lot with an enviably lush lawn. My envy was real, as I struggled with our patchy lawn every summer, while theirs thrived. I asked the husband for lawn advice more than once, and followed it. His advice was pretty simple. Water twice a week. Fertilize in the Spring.

They were good people. They held fun barbeques.

When they moved out, their lawn died, pretty much all at once, under that hot, relentless Pueblo sun. I assume someone turned off the sprinkler system, probably wisely, though it pained me to watch. The dead grass formed an ugly brown rectangle staining the end of the block, a stark visual reminder of the damage done to the citizens of this country by once trust-worthy institutions.

Back then, I lay the blame squarely at the feet of George W. Bush, and the greed of the banks, unleashed by a let’s-all-get-rich-quick regulatory environment.

Now, we have a slightly different war, and slightly different greed-heads in power. The end result is still the same. The rich, in the midst of a financial crisis, still find a way to get richer. The rest of us hold garage sales, pack up our belongings, slap For Sale signs up on the front lawn, say our goodbyes, and move on.

I miss my neighbors. I wish them well.

Peace.