Living again in a manufactured home community, my WOKE sensibilities won’t let me use the phrase trailer trash to describe me or the neighbors. I don’t care what pronoun, adjective, or noun you affix to me, refer to my people and me as “manufactured home trash.”
Last week, I hinted at more tales about our move to the Duluth metro. Hoping this doesn’t disappoint, here goes.
The Duluth/Proctor frontier is the 16th neighborhood across four states that the Bohunk and I have called home over the last half century, some hoods for less than a year, and others for a decade or more. After meeting neighbors and making friends in each place, I’ve found that people are the same everywhere. Folks are just trying to keep their heads above water and leave the world a better place.
As we walk the dogs near the entrance to our community, we see new neighbors all the time. Like everywhere else, I often get what we call the manly nod, a bow of the head that says, “I see you. I acknowledge you. I won’t hurt you, and you won’t hurt me.” We also see the same message in the lifted index finger on the steering wheel. It’s comforting.
The people who live in a manufactured home community are like people everywhere. They look like you could add a vest and balaclava to make them immigrant wranglers for the ICE regime—a comment about the ordinariness of the latest cadre of storm troopers.
At the recent National Night Out, almost 300 of our neighbors gathered at community HQ. We enjoyed burgers, dogs, potato salad, and baked beans, and had the chance to socialize. The organizers even arranged live music, a couple who were at least my age.
When we arrived at our new abode, the last weekend of July, we’d owned the house for a month. It was clear that the grass and weeds that constituted our new yard had not been mowed in the last four weeks.
Getting the truck unloaded, the animals oriented, the essentials unpacked, and us settled inside was my priority. Between that and the heat and humidity, lawn care took last place. I wouldn’t be mowing the lawn until the weather cooled or I heard a demand from management, despite its neglected appearance.
By Monday, I’d decided, based on weather forecasts and a desire to fit in, I would mow the shaggy lawn on Wednesday. Some of the grass and certain weeds were quite tall. It wouldn’t be easy to cut with my Scotts reel mower, but that was my only option.
Then a couple of young neighbors threw me a lifeline on Tuesday. Fiona (the big dog) and I met two brothers, Christian and Luke, on our Monday afternoon constitutional. Probably in their early 20s, the young men have lived in Zenith most of their lives. Luke is still recovering from an accident about a year ago, an accident that nearly killed him. Christian is all about keeping him active.
Tuesday afternoon, the two strolled by as I was outside doing something insignificant.
Luke said, “Would you hire us to mow your lawn?”
Whatever it cost, it would save me the aggravation on Wednesday.
“Sure,” I said. “How much?”
“What would you pay?” Luke came back.
“Five bucks.”
He hesitated at my offer and countered with,
“How about $20?” Before I could agree, he quickly added, “$25!” After some playful negotiation, we settled on $25. Christian went home to get the mower, and within a half-hour, he’d started cutting.
I used the opportunity the boys provided to focus on the overgrown tree in our backyard. The tree tops out at about 30 feet, but was surrounded by suckers that had been left to grow for years. Some of them are thicker than my arm.
My chainsaw is still in Grand Marais, so I hacked away with pruning shears and a camp saw. I was making good progress, so I rushed a bit too much. I walked right eye first squarely into the end of a freshly cut branch about the size of a number 2 pencil. The sharp pain, the stream of tears, and the waterfalls in my sinuses lasted all night.
A dozen years living in the valley of Sin City conditioned me to acknowledge approval with a gratuity. So I handed Christian $30 (Luke was going door-to-door seeking more customers) and we chatted a bit.
As if the pain-filled eye wasn’t aggravation enough that night, Fiona was struck by an intestinal issue that meant a trip outside every hour or two to do number two until midday Wednesday. Each trip required that I accompany her.
Love your neighbors.
