Lately in the news, topics related to land ownership and title and who gets to leave and who gets to stay (among other things) have been consistent (and at times equally divisive).
However, those debates are not where I’d like to play catch today (as I have my own personal thoughts on those matters, which are likely to be surprisingly contrarian to assumptions). I’d rather invite you to a home-run derby of laughter, as humour can bring us all together.
This column is only adjacently about property ownership and title. More fully, it reveals the absurdity of certainty when we (as individuals) only carry part of the full picture, that good people can share a boundary or border and the humour that smooths the trajectory to understanding.
A week ago, my neighbour (a co-worker) with whom I share a backyard fence (we will call him Mr. B) e-mailed me and said that a section of our wooden fence had blown down—last week’s high winds had collapsed a 20 to 30-foot section. I didn’t know, as I had been travelling to Manitoba and Minnesota. Sharing that he would get it back up again ASAP, I told him that there was no rush. No worries.
As winter flipped to a humid summer (without spring, I think), I had been avoiding the jungle-in-process and whatever tiger or hyena may have lived within it. With the grass too long, I didn’t want to jam up my push n’ mulch mower—so I outsourced like a Dr. Dre on a Tuesday.
It turned out another coworker had a family friend who did lawn care. I reached out, and he accepted.
Nearing the end of a work meeting, I received a text informing me that there is a problem and he would like to meet to discuss. I said, “For sure! I’ll meet you in front of my home in 20 minutes.”
Pulling onto my street, I see the problem. He didn’t have a push mower. He had a massive riding lawnmower that was a cross between an HK from the Terminator franchise and the throne the villain from The Cell sat upon. It looked like a military prototype preparing for the invasion of Klendathu with Major Rico.
“My mower is too wide to fit through your side fences. I can’t get back there.”
I asked if he wanted to just do the front yard and if he wanted to come back the following day with a push mower.
“Well, I noticed the fence in the back has an access point. Would your neighbour mind if I drove through his yard to mow yours?”
I had completely forgotten about the windstorm. Immediately, I thought it was a winner of an idea. Then I realized that ED-209 sauntering his way through my front yard would concern me a bit, so I e-mailed Mr. B.
No response? No kidding! It was Friday at 4:45 p.m. Avoid that phone, Mr. B. Avoid it.
Instead, I opted to go around the block to the next cul-de-sac and ask personally. Even though it was a blazer, I needed to hurry before Robo-Cain made the way back to Detroit. I had never been on this street, so I had to guesstimate which house was directly behind mine.
Walked up the street in the blazing sun and knocked. I heard movement and awaited the arrival of Mr. B.
The door opened, and an older man stepped into the doorway.
It immediately turned into the scene from There’s Something About Mary when Ben Stiller goes to Mary’s house before prom, and her stepfather answers the door.
Looked at the house and then back at him. At the house. At him.
The moment stunned me so much that I lost the ability to speak properly and began spouting fragments to looks of confusion and concern.
“I am looking for… um…”.
He goes, “Who?”
“He works… there… The fence…”
In the moment, I forgot Mr. B’s last name.
The blazing sun and tension of the moment now had my face red and sweat beading.
“I have the… phone… here”, while I fumbled the phone looking for his e-mail, while still speaking in broken English, which I couldn’t find.
Sixty seconds had passed, so I just said the name of the workplace, and he pointed me next door, still watching as I half-ran.
I rang the Ring doorbell camera, and Mr. B’s daughter, roughly about 10, answered the door.
She said “Hello,” and as I began to “talk”, a small dog was at her side that began to bark at a new face. The barks hit a frequency where the volume and the echo under the awning made everything said to me inaudible. Everything I said was interrupted every two words by the cacophony.
“Hi! I work with your dad” turned into fumbling syllables and sentence fragments.
The dog, having lost its mind, interrupted every other word with a bark.
“Well, the guy… The wind… Machine.”
She had the same look on her face as the neighbour: “Where did this absolute lunatic wander in from?”
It went on for about a good 90 seconds.
From her point of view, I couldn’t talk properly, was stuttering, could not finish sentences, and was crazy.
To try to get words in, I tried to pet the dog, which made everything much worse.
At that point, Mr. B’s son pulled up in a Jeep. I didn’t even say bye to the daughter. I spun, removed myself from the situation, and wandered over. Speaking ability returned.
“Hey, I live on the next cul-de-sac, work with your dad,” and everything got figured out.
The lawn care guy who was waiting patiently did the work and left with the Brazen Bull on wheels.
Everything was fine until I started thinking about perception. In our side of town, we have had a few characters who were into some bad stuff, often walking the streets semi-sleepwalking and talking to themselves, knocking on doors to see if someone was home; if not, break-ins have happened.
I had been wearing dress pants, dress shoes, aviators, styled hair…but at the same time had been stuttering, getting distracted on my phone, forehead sweating from the heat, trying to rush, not making sense, sounding like the Waterboy, scrolling while distracted, going house to house, forgetting names, and leaving people confused and concerned.
Was he dealing? Casing the joint?
Later, I emailed Mr. B to give him the play-by-play so there was nothing on Rant and Rave about the chaos.
But that’s not where it ends.
I hid out in my basement, where the AC kept me alive.
Five hours later, at 9:30 p.m., the sun had gone down, and I noticed little lights in the backyard from my sunroom windows.
I wasn’t sure if it was some far-flung galactic federation returning to scoop up E.T., Travis Walton, JZ Knight, a Xenomorph, a Yautja, Pennywise, and Constable Odo in order to keep good relations, but it was concerning.
Then I understood that Mr. B and his son were using their smartphone lights to give the fence some TLC while their dog kept them company.
To be neighbourly, I flipped on my backyard lights and walked to the window to see if it was enough.
Seeing the light, the dog perked up, looked left, and saw me standing behind the window. As we made eye contact, his brain went into full tilt rage like: “It’s HIM!!!!!! He’s inside houses now!!!”
So I stayed inside the rest of the night.
After emails were sent and everyone was brought on the same page, the only one left unresolved was that dog, with whom I will share a backyard property line indefinitely.
I guess if it proves anything, it’s that living space can be shared successfully, boundaries and property lines triumphantly honoured and space cohabited if only we are good-hearted, humble enough to know none of us carry full understanding, wise enough to know that all is defined by absurdity and that humour keeps relationships warm and memorable.
Five characters. Each with partial understanding. Four are brought to understandings through emails, phone calls, laughter and storytelling.
The only one still stressing and with unresolved suspicion is the dog, locked in the certainty that he alone knows the whole story of the deranged intruder beyond the now-restored fence.
At a time when divisiveness is often embedded in the news cycle, humour, comedy, the absurdity of the unreasonable, and the meeting of humility and perception can bring us together more successfully than certainty, politics, proclamation, policy or pretence.
Humour is fundamentally human. It transcends division, approaches the divine and remains perhaps our greatest antidote to the absurdity of the times.
Robert Horton is an educator, author, orator and linguist. He is a member of Rainy River First Nations.
