Saturday, my neighbors across the street packed up their house to move a few streets away. I felt so guilty. As long as you stay inside when a neighbor is moving, who’s to say you realize there is a moving van out front to even do the neighborly thing, like help them?
You could be busy inside with some important matters. You could be under the weather. You could be helping the kids with homework. You could be at church.
But when you’re on the front lawn, in plain view, using muscles that could be used for lifting boxes, instead rolling large balls of snow around the yard to build some sort of a ball and square and another ball that’s too heavy to lift with your teenage son…that’s some nerve.
The little man on my left shoulder says: “Geez, Amy, when you see a neighbor ACROSS THE STREET is moving, how is it that you don’t go over there and help? It’s more important to you to play in the snow?? How are you going to feel about this next summer when you see them at the pool? Hmmm????”
The little man on my right shoulder says: “You are not responsible for their choices. You are responsible for getting your teenager unplugged from the XBox and teaching him how to work as a team with a real live person, and build something in the snow before it all melts, and his chances of learning to work together are completely shot. Forever. Scarred for life. Plus, even though it looks like this snow will last ’til June, it could be gone tonight!”
I tried not to make eye contact with the neighbors every time they lugged stuff out to their truck. I felt like such an oaf, shoveling snow into tupperware molds, and effortfully packing it down with the back of my shovel (I had a technique for making blocks built to last), while they were hauling boxes and furniture.
To make matters worse, something happened to the wife’s car. A mesh of electrical wires, hung too close to the exhaust pipe, melted, and now she has no dashboard lights. Why must expensive problems arise when people are moving?? Their voices rose out on the street, which is not like them. They’re usually pretty quiet. But the stress of moving, perhaps compounded by the lack of help from nearby available…*voice trails off*…
Later, the husband returns from making the first delivery. He parks the moving van in front of our house and we chat for a bit about the unfortunate wire problem. Just before he’s about to go inside to do more heavy lifting, Sarah Silverman possesses me. My eyes are serious but my grin is impish, and I say Sarah says, very pathetically, “I can’t believe you guys aren’t over here helping us build this snow sculpture.”
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