Keep Out

From where I'm sitting and waiting for the light to change, I can only see parts of the old house on the corner. It looks empty and exhausted, like a derelict who has made a home on the wrong side of the railroad tracks.

The first story is barely visible for the un-mowed, un-watered grass and shrubs. A dozen or so elephant ears, as brownish and dispirited as the cracked and tired looking planters that hold them, are littered across the veranda. Weeds grow in and around the windows, advancing and encroaching on the second story with the patience of Job. Some have already met the low hanging tree limbs and embraced them, they wave gently and brush up against the discolored stucco walls and precariously attached shutters. The tiled roof is faded and peeling under a thick blanket of pinestraw and a lone squirrel perches on a gutter, bright eyed, alert, tail swishing. He seems to be waiting and watching, for what I can't imagine. The only thing missing is the half dozen loud, territorial and neglected dogs who once lived in the yard of this old relic and routinely terrorized delivery people, mail carriers and innocent passersby. After years of abuse, their predicament finally generated enough complaints that a rescue stepped in and convinced the owners to surrender them. No one appears willing to do the same for the old house and it fairly reeks of past glory and sadness.

I never heard what happened to the occupants and sometimes I wonder if they're still there. I pass the place several times a day, every day, and have never seen a single sign of life, not so much as a curtain has ever moved or a light been turned on. The three sides of iron fencing surrounding the property, even when the dogs were there, have always been shut and locked. All in all, everything about this old house says Keep Out but whether it's from misery and mean spiritedness or just a tragic blend of old age and loneliness, I'll probably never know.

When the light turns green, I turn down the side street and see that here the weeds have taken over even more forcefully.  Behind the gates of the driveway, I can see a pile of trash, randomly scattered by the wind and beginning to draw flies.  The rest of the backyard is pretty much a debris field of useless, rusted appliances stacked amid moldy plastic containers and the feeling of decay is palpable.  A couple of ragged and forlorn looking stray cats keep watch from the back steps and I can smell the stench of ammonia and rotting food.  I wonder that the neighbors haven't called the property standards board or the health department.

I drive on, leaving the old house in my rear view mirror until it disappears.