Is That a Dead Body on My Porch?
Most families have a thing. Some have soccer, some have camping, those I envied had swimming pools in their backyard. My family had moving.
I've lost track of all the places I've lived. I was born in Tacoma, spent my grade school years in Gig Harbor and Olympia before moving across the world to Romania. We moved multiple times while there, then a couple more times once we returned to the states.
It didn’t end there. Since my husband and I have been married, we’ve been renters multiple times over and very bummed owners of a condo fiasco that began during the crash of ‘08 and finally reached its conclusion this past October (as far as we know). But that’s another story.
After several years in our suburban condo, Benjamin and I moved into a little house in Portland. It was a purple and green place with a great porch and a wild yard. Perfect for artistic weirdos like the Sadlers.
While the house itself was intriguing with its unique architecture and dark purple paint, the most interesting aspect of our time in that house was the entity referred to as "The Mayor." No, not the Portland mayor. This mayor was the self-appointed kind. Mayor of the street. She told us so. She even had a little dance she did, all about being the mayor, thumbs pointed at her chest as she bellowed and grooved about her prestigious role.
Let me take another moment to describe our mayor. For the sake of privacy, let’s call her “Pamela.” Mayor Pamela was one of those women who could have been forty or sixty. She wore T-shirts and sweats, along with her favorite accessory: cigarettes. In addition, Pamela suffered from a mild case of voyeurism. Sometimes I thought Pamela the Mayor knew more about my life than I did. I figured this out one day when she asked, “Hey, what did you do with those bananas?” Aha. From the shadows of her curtained windows, she had seen the groceries I had casually carried into the house days prior. Good eye, Pamela. Good eye.
If you’re like me, you might be wondering, “What are the duties of a neighborhood mayor?” Well, on the street with the purple house, the primary duties of were monitoring the neighborhood for suspicious people and alerting residents of said intruders. In exchange for these supervisory duties, Mayor Pamela received a small benefit package: free use of the residents’ garbage and recycling bins. A reasonable exchange. And so, the months passed in the purple house with Pamela the Mayor’s keen eye for suspicious characters.
Some time after moving in, I arrived home from work on a sunny afternoon and stared at a strange object on the front porch. A body. Was Pamela off duty? If there ever was an intrusion, this was it.
Who is on my porch? Two thick legs hung over the edge. The head and torso were hidden, but after scanning the possibilities, I realized it was none other than my personal mayor.
Is she dead? With various substances pulsing through her body, I was surprised Pamela had lived this long.
I crept closer to the house, hoping she wasn't dead. Pamela had found an irritating yet treasured place in my heart.
Rest assured. I didn't have to wait long to find out the status of my mayor. As I peered at her square frame, a man's voice hollered out, ”Just wake her up!”
Across the street, Pamela's husband, a motorcycle buff, sat watching me watch his wife's napping carcass.
I fumed. What kind of a man lets his wife wander across the street and pass out on the neighbor’s porch?
Thankfully, I didn’t have to urge Mr. Pamela to get his butt across the street and take care of his wife. As if she sensed my presence, Pamela sat up abruptly, eyes wide, and dove into some explanation about heat stroke. Heat stroke in Portland, Oregon. On my shaded porch. Hmmm. I was gonna guess it might be alcohol-related, but what do I know?
Phew. Whatever the reason for her nap, she wasn’t dead. Mayor Pamela heaved herself off the porch and wandered back home to her beloved husband. I denied the temptation to throttle both of them. After all, throttling the mayor was probably an act of treason against the neighborhood government, and so I simply went inside the purple house.
It’s been years since our time in Mayor Pamela’s neighborhood, and I have to admit that I miss those days. It was kind of exciting, never knowing what was going to happen with our little politician. I learned to care about someone who is different than I am. Every new place has something to teach me, something to laugh about, some story to write. Here’s to fun neighbors all over the world. -Enjoy the journey, Heidi Beth
TELL ME:
How many times have you moved? Do you like it? Hate it? Ambivalent?
BOHEMIAN CHALLENGE:
Create a timeline of all the places you have lived, or all the jobs you’ve had. If you’ve never moved or have had the same job your whole life, go through each year of your life and pick out your favorite memory, one that makes you smile and create something with one of them (a picture, a poem, a story). Have fun!