On avocados and neighbourliness

We have these noisy neighbours.

We haven't always had them, in fact they’ve only just arrived. They’ve replaced the owners of the house, who were a missionary family I believe, though I'm not certain as I’ve never actually seen them. I know they’re missionary based solely on first-hand account of others, which is a rather Biblical approach to the whole idea of knowing. I suspected they were missionaries though when, once a year, they invited a bus-load of children to swim in their pool; the whole thing had a mix of fun-in-the-sun with baptismal overtones – there were whistles involved, loud instruction and a couple of life-jackets. I suppose one can’t be too careful. We never really stuck around choosing the first blow of the whistle as our queue to go inside, turn on the TV, and wait it out.

Apparently the missionaries have gone back to the States for a season.

So these new neighbours, well, we’re not too sure. We’re not too happy with this development as these guys are far more demanding. The other day we were out back throwing a baseball and chatting as we are in the habit of doing on warm summer evenings when the woman had the nerve to interrupt the game to introduce herself.

rock pool mirage. Ansteys.

This was startling.  She introduced herself, her daughter, her son and so on. They came to the fence - smiling, polite, handshakes all round.

She then did the unforgivable: she asked for avocados. Now we have a huge avocado tree. We rarely eat them, though they produce an embarrassment of fruit in season. They only serve to make our already overweight labrador even fatter. All summer this labbie parades around the garden with one firmly ensconced in her mouth: look dad I can carry fruit! Her face a delightful mix of pride and stupidity. So mostly we just pack the half-rotted avocados into the trash.

So it was not like we were wanting for avocados, as if the request came at the precise moment we were down to our last one. No, they were all around me. I was having to step around them to retrieve a wide variety of ill-aimed throws from Mary, which happens far too often for my liking - 'Sorry!' and off I go. So the request came as I stood knee-deep in avos in various stages of decomposition. But still, they are my avos and, well, who are you again?

So I did what anyone resenting the intrusion would do, I scampered around collecting as many really nice avocados as I could, driven by guilt and a desire to get back to my baseball game, but mostly by guilt. Mary of course was nowhere to be found. Upon their introductions I attempted some of my own, 'Well. I'm Andrew and this is my wife Mary,' turning to introduce her only to find that she had completely disappeared, like a magician sweeping a cape over a see-through container that, not two seconds earlier, had held a human body; I noticed Mary deeply concerned in this moment with investigating some dog poop in the corner, behind a tree, far from the neighbours. As bad as I am, Mary is worse. Mary is really vocal but only with those she knows. To the unknown she is ninety percent demure mystery I hardly recognise her. 

Shadow hallelujah

In fairness, we carry hurt from the past. New neighbours moved in when we lived in Pinetown. Every other Saturday they would throw these pool parties. They must have had a diving-board or something because there would be this bouncing sound followed by a loud shout of ‘Hallelujah!’ and ending with a Tsunami-forming dive. They looped R. Kelly's ‘I believe I can fly’ every second Saturday for a year; when I should have been writing sermons, I was googling methods of cyanide poisoning through pool floaters.

Still, we are horrid neighbours.

This past Saturday, while having a party, the avocado tree - or part thereof - came crashing down. It fell a distance, weighed down by fruit and old age; it fell slowly, loudly, arresting conversation as everyone present, drinks in hand, turned to witness the event. Falling such a distant took a while and was in some ways terrifying. It drew the usual array of insightful comments one would expect from a relaxed saffa braai: ‘Chees bru! Looks like part of your tree broke and fell’. You think.

The thing is, that tree also blocks our neighbours from seeing us and us seeing them. When it fell I went to investigate and ran into our neighbour again. I gave a generic ‘Hello!’ having already forgotten her name. She spoke about getting branches cut away but I think she may have been angling for more avocados, now blanketing the ground even more fully than before.

 

Pink sky

The ailing tree is a worrying development: if any more branches fall we'll have no choice but to sit on our verandahs and stare at each other. If only I had picked those avocados and shared them around the neighbourhood, I might have been able to keep my distance.