A debacle: The myth of property rights

Just a debacle. Over the last two weeks I’ve watched quietly as a process played out here in my neighborhood. She drives a Cadillac, has blue hair, and wears expensive clothes. She doesn’t belong in the neighborhood though likely lives down in the ramshackle area. My street has the largest houses in the neighborhood and likeliest costlier homes. Yet the haughty seasoned citizen isn’t from this street. I don’t know her. I’ve never talked to her.

It was a brown four door mid 80s beater with no hope of ever hitting the street again. Last fall they pushed it out of the garage and the more toxic former lubricants slowly leaked out of it. It must have meant something to the guy who owned it. The dejected look and the slumped shoulders of despair were evident. All the body language including the shaking hands showed the absolute sadness. They loaded that car I most remember from seeing in old gangster flicks onto a flatbed to send to the crusher.

Any story I gave to the reason for him keeping it would be made up. Perhaps it is the car he brought his kids home in, perhaps it is the car he won in a raffle decades ago, or perhaps it was just a treasured object. The soul wrenching sadness of watching it towed away was obvious.

Ms. blue hair didn’t see that. She drove by our house like a Macy’s pirate checking out his property with a critical eye. Twenty minutes later the code enforcement guys would show up and ticket the car. A few days later she’d walk down our street with her face best described as a pinched crab and she’d be on the phone again. A little while later a police car or code enforcement car would show up. Maybe one of the neighbors was calling her and complaining. Perhaps she is the self-appointed queen of codes and old cars. Protecting us from the wraith of cinder blocks.

I watched this drama play out. I hate people who can’t mind their own business. Sub-divisions are little pits of hell.