COMMUNITY

HOW MANY MILES TO BABYLON ?
THREE-SCORE AND TEN
CAN I GET THERE BY CANDLELIGHT
YES AND BACK AGAIN . . . . . (TRADITIONAL)

You know that somewhere is a really bad place to live when the local council designates it as “the gateway to . . “ or that the estate agents tell you it’s “only half an hour from. . .” , and anyway the air is very clean. When I moved to the valley it wasn’t for the clean air or to go through a gateway to anywhere else. Instead, in my romantic way I was looking for a piece of the past, a safe community just like in my grandmother’s day. I’m not saying that the thought of being able to live somewhere where you could fish in the states best trout streams any evening after work without having to travel wasn’t attractive, just that it wasn’t the deciding factor. Ok the Valley is very nice, vineyards, tourist spots and the like but I couldn’t afford to live the good life of the country gentleman.
At first my house shared a driveway with a man who would walk round the garden with a gun, usually in carpet slippers and an old blue dressing gown. Presumably he’d just jumped out of the bath, yelled “Eureka!” and decided to shoot something; maybe me. The only conversations I ever shared with him were when he told me not to park near the gate because he’d parked there for thirty years. He said my strange car there would scare his pitbulls. His argument was as well rounded as the barrels of his shotgun, yet surprisingly persuasive. The other time was when one day I made the mistake of approaching him and saying, “Hi.” He moved his face towards mine, so that his eyes were less than a foot from away and explained in a voice that would have done Hannibal Lector proud,” If I wanted to speak to my neighbours I would live in Collingwood.”
Above his doorway stood a sign, “Beautiful People Welcome.” He was no doubt disappointed that we’d brought the house instead of Posh and Becks.
Now he’s moved, surprisingly to Collingwood, to be nearer his hospital. I’ve since learned that he’s a well-respected surgeon. The house sits empty. Beside it a brand new Tudor cottage has been erected. Complete with oak beams and basketball ring. I don’t really know the people who live there, their twin Commodores are never in the drive long enough. He’s called Ron and she’s called something Italian, like Gelatti. To them community is the view through the windscreen when you’re almost home.
The streets retired residents don’t share their views. Mrs Kaye from the corner is always happy to say hello, especially since we’ve got the puppies. She regularly stops the kids and offers a bone for the dogs. What did she used to do with all these bones? I suppose in the past she manufactured her own adhesives. Jack, our other retiree similarly loves to stop for a chat. Well I say a chat really he’s just passing on his experience to slow down any project. “You’ve planted those beans too close together, and they’ll need a taller stake than that, I’ve got some bamboo in the shed…” I’ve got some bamboo in my shed too, only mine’s been signed “Heddon” and cost a couple of hundred bucks, as pretty little fly rod as you’d ever like to cast. To be totally honest I wasn’t planting the beans to grow and feed the family anyway, it was just an exercise in earning brownie points with Vicky so that when I hear that they are biting I’ll be able to go without a fuss.
On the other side of my house live the lesbians, whose coffee is as decaffeinated as their conversation. Venus, which is her spiritual name, used to be a social worker until she inherited from an elderly aunt. I often ponder how lucky she was to wake up one morning and know that her spirit was called something as beautiful as Venus. Imagine if it had been called Verruca. Venus and her partner Penni, emphasis on the I, met back in the days when Penni was stealing cars. These cars she readily explains were late 70’s model because “they’re easier to repair.” She tells this in a way that makes you feel stupid if you asked why she would steal broken cars. Surely cars that didn’t need repairing would be easier for the get away. Perhaps that’s why she got caught; you can’t go that fast pushing a Kingswood uphill.
Then last week something happened. We were woken in the night by the fire siren. Suddenly Ron was on top of his roof with a hose, he later admitted that he didn’t know why but he’s seen someone do it on the news. Jack, who used to be in the CFA, was knocking on doors telling people not to panic he’d got a radio scanner. When I answered the door dressed in my old red bath robe (clearly embroidered “Crown Towers Hotel” just like one would if it had been stolen after a business conference) he explained the fire was only a little one, and it was kilometres away down by Lysterfield, but was checking that we know where the fire safety areas were if we needed them. He was particularly concerned about the “sisters” next door. I don’t think he’s quite got the hang of Venus and Penni’s relationship. My wife got the kids up and they had a midnight snack while they got dressed and packed up their “special things bag.” These are the few personal items that they’d hate to loose. Connie, my youngest, decided to make sure her homework wasn’t in the bag because she didn’t want it saved. The only thing she really wanted to take were the puppies and her cat, all of which were much enjoying the commotion. I left them filling buckets and baths, with a parting “and don’t flush the toilet it reduces the water pressure.” I ran up the road still in my dressing gown to see if the old widow, Mrs Kaye, was all right. “Nice of you to ask deary, do you want some sherry and a biscuit, and a bone.” Perhaps she had mistaken me for Father Christmas.
Then, as quickly as it started it was all over, but in that thirty minutes we had become a community. Not a safe community as I had originally wanted but somehow that didn’t matter.
I can’t help thinking of my grandmother, Nanny Stone, who taught me how to catch sticklebacks in a jam jar. She’d lived in London during the blitz with my Mum, and Aunts, and Uncles, and Pops who’d fought “the first time”, and been wounded at “Wipers.” She always said that that despite the bombings they were the best years of her life, and I’d never believed her.
Perhaps some of her generation should have a word withThe Pentagon and Al Qaeda.