Pursuant to Sammy’s complaints about the sounds of motorized lawn equipment, I thought I’d share with you the madness that was my life.
When we lived in Georgia, we rented base housing. This meant we had a small fenced-in backyard. I mean small, like a lot of people rolled out plastic grass and called it a day. We sold our lawnmower and either The Mister or Bubba used a weed-whacker on it or Housing mowed it during deployment.
There was a mulched bed in the front, where you could plant something to make your house your own. This is someone’s picture of a house that looks like our old one. We were the right side of a duplex.
That mulch bed was my small section of nature. Over the years, I planted many plants that claimed to be drought tolerant, but there were only four things that stood up to the constant heat and western sun: juniper, ground phlox, Mexican petunias, and zinnias. Fortunately, those last two brought butterflies and bumblebees.
In addition to these tiny spaces of our own, we had vast green spaces that were public. We had a lot of roundabouts and a few medians, but basically, it was newly-constructed, without shade, in the middle of a pine forest.
Sound reverb is real.
The houses were arranged in rectangles and within the block of homes, there was either a playground, or a field.
All public green spaces were tended by a variety of groundskeepers.
ALL DAY, EVERY DAY, CONSTANTLY, or so it seemed.
We had mower guys, blower guys, and weed-whacker guys ALL THE TIME.
Add those guys to the trash and recycle collection noise, the motorcycle noise, and the ruckus of artillery. Hell, artillery is its own post. Maybe I’ll write about the booms tomorrow.
It was a loud place to live.
“That’s okay, Weed-Whacker Guy, my toddlers don’t really need a nap. I would love to listen to them fight and cry for the rest of the day.”
“Oh sure, 5am is the perfect time to blow sand to more desirable places!”
“I will never sleep-in, EVER!”
“Yes, I would love to watch television with the volume on 54!”
“I swear they just mowed this same place yesterday!”
“Hey, that’s great, they’re power-washing the house and mowing at the same time!”
And I’ll tell you what, I do believe they enjoyed making the noise. They smugly smiled, with their earplugs and their big trucks, towing their rattling equipment. Vroom, clang, clang, clang, “Here we come to wake the dead! AHAHAHA!”
Here, I hear the interstate. I’m citified, so it may as well be the sound of the ocean. So no, now that I live here in my nice, quiet, largely wooded neighborhood, I don’t get bothered when my neighbors mow. They all wait until mid-morning and they never, ever look happy to be doing it.
Have you ever lived where it’s excessively loud?