Dogwoods in the Hole

The other day as my aunt was helping me plant geraniums on my street, a lady on a motorized cart rolled by.

“You have a beautiful house,” she said, “but I bet you wish it weren’t in this neighborhood.”

(We weren’t even standing in front of my house.)

My aunt and I discussed this as we finished planting the geraniums, and I admitted that I was surprised how many people thought of my street as a tough neighborhood. It’s reputation had traveled widely. I had gotten many sideways glances and concerned comments … that’s kind of a rough neighborhood isn’t it? They call that “the hole” don’t they?

A few mornings later, I was famished and decided to get an egg white delight on my way to work. At 250 calories each, they aren’t bad for McDonald’s. I pulled away from my curb where I had dragged my trashcan because Friday is trash day. I went to our Main Street McDonald’s only to hear that they were only excepting cash. After wrestling through my backpack I confirmed that in fact I had only a debit card.

My growling stomach motivated me to drive on to the State Road 19 McDonald’s. The massive line of cars already at the drive-through at 5:15 AM was a little frightening but I resolutely pulled in line. I finally got around to the window and the worker handed me my small black coffee. She told me my sandwich would be out in a moment. My two cupholders were already filled so I set my coffee on my passenger seat bolstered up by my backpack. 

After waiting for several minutes watching the numbers on my car clock change, the same worker called to someone else, “I need a delight please!” As if I had just ordered it and not ten minutes earlier.

Finally it was handed out to me and with great relief I drove off unwrapping the paper from the sandwich and beginning to eat. Then in the darkness of the car that I heard the sound: glug, glug, glug. I looked over to my passenger seat to see my small coffee on its side the brown liquid pouring forth in waves into my center consul. I picked it up. It was over half empty.

So now I was about half an hour late to work and had coffee all over my car. I pulled into the parking garage stuff some dry napkins into my center consul, and jogged down the cement pathway into the hospital.

I had big hopes for the day. We had just two surgeries and both would be done by early afternoon. I planned to wrap up loose ends, teach the patients that I needed to teach, and be home by 5 o’clock so that my neighbor could change the oil in my car.

Then I planned to go to bed, get well rested, and hit the carpet running Saturday to clean, do laundry, and pack for my trip to the East Coast.

About 15 hours later I walked back out of the hospital. I had had the most exhausting day I could remember. It was now 9 PM. 

In those 15 hours there had been a few moments of calm, but from about 11 AM on the day was an unending circle of phone calls, pages, potential emergencies, transfers, questions, complaints, and ibuprofen.

Finally in complete exasperation I called my experienced coworker Sue and complained about my mental state to such an extent that she kindly came in to help me. By that time I was sitting in front of my computer glassy eyed staring at my paperwork and screen in and almost uncomprehending fog.

I settled into my driver’s seat and was hit by the overwhelming smell of coffee. 

Right.

When I pulled up to my own curb (after stopping on Laurel Street to sit on my couch and eat too much of my friends pizza), I lifted the drippy napkins out of my center consul and carried them to my trashcan.

My trash can. 

It was now back in its spot beside my porch. 

If this doesn’t sound like a big deal to you, it’s probably because you don’t live on a street where garbage is collected at the curb and each person is responsible to return their trash can.

And coming out of a coffee soaked car from a 15 hour exhausting day, I felt grateful and relieved to live on a street where people would help me out by putting my trash can back. 

Not to mention, my mechanic neighbor who was patient and willing to change the oil in my car at 10 AM Saturday morning, instead of 5 PM Friday night. I don’t even have to drive to the service center anymore since the mechanic has moved in. I just give him my keys. I tried to pay him today for his labor, but it was impossible. I insisted that I was going to give him $40 because that’s what I pay at shops and this is so much easier because I didn’t have to drive my car anywhere. But as he had done before, he refused, and only let me pay for the oil. And he didn’t even complain about the overpowering smell of coffee.

I know about the drug raid a few weeks ago, and I know that our streets are full of potholes and graffiti.

But that makes the beauty even brighter,  like the dog wood tree beside my porch.

I took a picture of it a few days ago and I tried to not include the ugly house in the background. But now when I look at the picture somehow the flowers are more beautiful because of the background. 

So, woman on the motorized cart, I do like my house, and I’m really glad it’s in this neighborhood. Finding my trashcan had been returned to its spot, getting my oil changed so cheaply… Both were made even more beautiful by my exhausting, coffee-stained, 15 hour day and by the ugliness of our street’s reputation.

Let me live here in “the hole”, and find beauty in the darkness of bad reputation or simply bad days.