I Scared The Wrong Kids

My neighborhood is a bit of an anomaly. As the location of the cheapest real estate during the boom years prior to our current economic malaise, it's got a real mix of characters. There are those like me, who wanted to get into the game. Buying the cheap spec houses,or cheap trailers, or building (in my case) modest homes. Then there are the renters of nice small homes built by Realtors looking to make a sustained buck. But, there are still more trailers than homes, occupied by equal parts, air-condition-preserved retirees, and the closest thing America has to slum-dwellers. The former religiously keeping indoors and to themselves, and the latter living life in the street, and often in other people's yards.

I'd say the majority of occupants of the Modge (the affectionate shortening of Colington Harbor's Modular Section) rent. Therefore, they don't exactly oppose the local hood rats, or street toughs, as my wife calls them, wandering through their yards. As long as cars, houses and belongings are spared more than a passing glance, trespassing has been largely ignored.

The problem is that harmless daylight wandering becomes evening and night time vandalism and petty theft. To be clear, most of these kids are under twelve, and fall into the vandal category. The only thing they've ever taken from me is plywood scraps to build skateboard ramps. Granted it was in the dead of night, or while I was at work, and it was without permission, but I may have deserved it. First, I didn't lay out ground rules, the first time I "donated" plywood, and second, the underside of the house was definitely cluttered enough that I didn't notice anything was missing. I just noticed really familiar looking pieces of plywood littering the sides of the road on my way home.

At times, things have gotten serious. Local street toughs have pilfered the beer fridge in the garage, and I'm sure would have nabbed bikes or surfboards, had they not gotten joyfully drunk on my Sam Adams.

So, we are wary, and don't mind giving a toung lashing to the odd vagrant we encounter inside the gates. Today though, I blew it. Deanna tipped me off to some little footsteps coming up the drive while she was occupied feeding Quinn. I heard a band of vagrants rounding the house and jumped out into the side yard and gave them a gruff HEY! What are you doing!!! . . .
. . .Selling raffle tickets was the choral reply of the two young girls, aged seven and nine.

Oooops!! What's worse is Angel, the youngest, I met before. She expressed deep interest in Quinn on one of our walks. She said something along the lines of, "Hey mister, can I say hello to your baby?" I said sure and she gently caressed Quinn's palm. I said, "This is Quinn and I'm Marc, what's your name?"
"I'm Angle, but I'm not allowed to talk to you because you are a stranger, but if you ever come walking by here, I'd like to see Quinn again, I'm here all the time."

I left that first conversation thinking, I hope I have chance to let this girl know that I'm a positive force in the Modge. So, jumping out from behind my house and shouting Hey! was probably not the best course of action.

I did buy raffle tickets, and invited Deanna and Quinn out for a meet and greet. That seemed to relieve some of the tension.

Lesson learned, even in the hood, street toughs must be taken on a case by case basis!

We All Like to be Listended To, or Jim Cantore is a Jack Ass

I'm not going to waste premium Shy Drunk Real Estate picking on Jim Cantore. He does enough damage himself. But I do think there is a point to be made here. I'm a news junkie.

Living on the Outer Banks is great, but it makes me feel detached from the rest of the world. Sustainability, the Middle East Peace Process, floods, oil spills, disasters, public policy, etc. Sure we have our issues, and we discuss them. But, the news is seldom made here, until the weather gets weird that is.

All my life, my involvement in anything has served to delegitimize it in my mind. My first real job was as a teacher, but I didn't have a teaching certificate, so somehow it seemed that I was taking advantage of some colossal loop hole. My second job was for a YMCA resident camp but seemed too fun to be a legitimate job. Now, I supervise the construction of gigantic vacation homes, but somehow, because I go surfing on my lunch break--often longer--it doesn't feel like a real job. You know the kind your guidance counselor said you should get.

So, I was just involved with a hurricane. Not my first storm. by far. However, it was the first storm I owned property, other than a car, and had a family to consider. Thursday was stressful. Just getting around here during a tourist evacuation can be a chore. Getting houses battened down, and taking care of my own family was a full day's work. In short, a real hurricane came and went last night. I'm looking forward to two days worth of cleaning up downed trees in my yard alone.

But, it wasn't that bad. It was dangerous, it lasted longer than expected, and it kept us up. It threatened our property. But, it wasn't bad.

This afternoon, after watching some surfers towing into (with a jet-ski) smaller waves than we had all been paddling into in the week preceding the storm, I sat in the truck and listened to some financial news show on NPR. Then I thought of Jim Cantore. We all want to be listened to. Maybe my existence is not a delegitimizing force. Maybe life just is what it is. Sometimes it's news worthy, and when it's not, all those guys still gotta earn their keep. Tough business. When there is some news, it only makes sense that they hype it.

So, a news junkie, I'll will probably remain. But even my favorite commentators will be wearing "Jim Cantore Suit," in my mind. Maybe it's not that I crave information. Maybe it's just that everywhere you are do not live seems a little mysterious, and therefore more interesting, than where you do live. So, maybe the coming hurricane, the coming economic double dip, the impending conservative take-over, and yes--even a dirt bag hippie must admit--the environmental destruction, is all coming. It might just not pack as big a punch as we are told.

So, be prepared, tie down your shit, and if it looks like it's really going to hit the fan, get out of town. But just remember. The guy in the "Jim Cantore Suit" has a job, it's to scare the shit out of you. So you'll tune in for the latest update.