Spying Eyes and Busy Lives

There’s a funny truth about small towns, front porches, and neighbors who never quite warm up to you–they don’t have to like you to make sure they know your business.

Now, I don’t mean “neighbors” in the biblical sense. I mean the ones who sit just far enough away to avoid ever saying hello, but somehow manage to know what time you leave the house, what you carried out to the trash, and whether your yard got watered on Tuesday instead of Wednesday.

Mary says it’s just human nature. Folks need entertainment, and if they’re not getting it from cable TV, they’ll get it from me trimming the hedge.

I figure she’s right. If you think about it, most people don’t dislike you enough to stop watching; they dislike you just enough to make popcorn while they peek from behind the curtains.

The other morning, I stepped out in my night shirt and sweat pants—yes, the ones with the drawstring that have lost all ambition. I didn’t even have to turn around to know I was getting observed.

You can feel eyes on your back the same way you can feel the sun on your neck. Sure enough, across the way, there was that ripple of blinds closing a half-second too late. Subtle as a foghorn.

The truth is, I don’t take offense. If someone who doesn’t care for me still invests the time to keep up with my comings and goings, well, that’s practically a compliment.

Watching a man mow his lawn isn’t high theater, but maybe it’s the only show in town. Of course, it works both ways.

I’ve noticed the same folks who don’t like me seem mighty concerned with whether my dog barks too much or how many bags of groceries I carry in. I never quite figured out if they’re hoping I’ll succeed or rooting for me to fail, but either way, I’m giving them something to do.

My dad used to say, “If people are talking about you, at least you’re still worth talking about.”

He was right. Folks don’t gossip about fence posts. They gossip about people living their lives.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Shouldn’t I get irritated? Shouldn’t I put up tall hedges or walk around with blinders on like a racehorse? Maybe.

But the way I see it, if somebody wants to spend their afternoon keeping track of when I drag the trash cans out, that’s their hobby. I won’t ruin their fun.

Besides, half the time I give them something to chew on. One day, I set a lawn chair in the driveway and ate a sandwich while reading a Louis L’Amour paperback. I didn’t need to be in the driveway, mind you—I just knew it’d spark a dozen whispered theories.

“Why’s he sitting out there? Did Mary kick him out? Is the power off? Maybe the refrigerator broke!”

Sometimes you have to feed the audience.

And here’s the kicker–the very people who never wave, never smile, never say good morning, will be the first ones to call 9-1-1 if they don’t see you out and about like usual. They may not like you, but they’ve appointed themselves your unofficial attendance officer.

If I disappeared tomorrow, they’d be the ones saying, “Well, I knew something was wrong—he didn’t take the garbage out at 4:35 sharp on Thursday morning.”

So I’ve come to accept it. Being watched means you’re still in the land of the living, and that’s nothing to complain about. Better to be the star of a free neighborhood drama than fade into total obscurity.

In fact, I’ll leave you with this thought–if they don’t like you but they’re still watching, you’ve got the upper hand. You get to live your life, while they spend theirs watching you live it.

Seems like a fair deal to me.