The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank (2 page)

My son had more foliage than that growing under his bed.

“Gather it up,” said my husband, “and put it in the garage and for God's sake watch the dog. He has eight assorted fruit trees stuck in his tail.”

By noon the next day we had planted the entire package.

“Whatya think?” asked my husband.

“It looks like a missile site,” I grumbled.

“I think everything will survive the transplanting with the exception of the maple tree. The dog ...”

“He didn't.”

“Yep. His tail brushed against it and the trunk snapped in half.”

“I'm worried about the flowering mother-in-law's tongues.” “Why?” “They just spoke to me. They said, 'Help.' ”

The Original Settlers

The triumph of man over the suburbs was made possible by the sheer guts of a band of original settlers.

Later, other fringe businesses would sprout up: a water supply, hospitals, grocery stores, post offices and schools;

scouting programs and Good Humor trucks, but at the beginning, these scouts welcomed the newcomers from the city with hands outstretched—and palms upward.

The Telephone Representative

“Do you want a phone?” asked the lady at the door.

“What kind of a joke is that?” I asked irritably. “Does John Wayne salute the flag? Does Dean Martin drink? Does the Pope work Sundays? Of course I want a phone,” I said, literally dragging her into the living room. “Where do I sign?”

“My goodness,” she smiled. “Not so fast. We have some decisions to make. First, let me introduce myself. I am Miss Turtletaub, your telephone representative, and I'll be handling your application. Now, to begin with, what type of service do you want?”

“The one where the phone is in the house.”

“You're teasing,” she said. “Do you want the party line that is quaint, but a drag, the two-party line where you share your phone with an informer, or the popular private service?”

“Private. Now when ...”

“I assume you want more than one phone in a house of this size. Where is your family room?”

“Down the hall, first door to the left and lock it or the kids will bust in on you.”

“Oh. Then what about a phone in your bedroom? After all, there is nothing more frightening than the insistent ring of the phone after midnight when your loved ones need you the most and you are busy breaking your leg in a dark hallway.”

“The bedroom sounds great. Could you ...”

“Three phones. That's smart. Now, what about a jack? After all, basking out of doors is the reason you moved to this cornfield in the first place. Just say you are standing out in the backyard talking to your neighbors. Without a phone nearby, you'll never know when some disc jockey is trying to give away $10,000. Look at it this way—a jackpot like that would pay for the jack in one phone call's time.”

“Terrific. One jack. Now could we talk about...”

“Color? I knew you were discerning the moment I walked in. I brought along some color chips and I think you'll find coordinated phones for every room in your house. There's God's green, barnyard brown, brothel red, and of course boring black.”

“One barnyard, one God's, and one boring.”

“Wise choice. Now, have you thought about which model you prefer? We have a great one that hangs from the wall for the kitchen that doesn't take up valuable counter space. Then we have the cradle type with the traditional dial, and we have the collector's gallery: the conversation-piece types in the French provincial, the Early American ones shaped like a pump, and here's a cutesie shaped like an ear trumpet.”

“Ah . . . traditional is fine,” I said, fidgeting, “now, would you be able to tell me ...”

“You have to live with it. Now about the listing. I know you have youngsters in the family and most of our sophisticated clientele such as yourself want their children listed so they might reap the entire benefits of a phone.”

“That's fine,” I said.

“Now, unless you have any questions, I think that does it,” she said, smiling and snapping her book shut.

“Just one,” I said excitedly. “When can you install the phones?”

She shuffled through her papers and came out with a schedule. Then, tracing down with her fingernail, she paused and said, “A year and a half.”

“A year and a half”

“You sound shocked,” she smiled. “Have you any idea how much money is involved in cables and poles and electronics to bring phone service all the way out to Sub-urbian Gems? Why it takes an Act of Congress just to clear the land. We can't perform miracles, can we? Excuse me,” she said, “I must dash. There's a couple moving in today down the street. What would they think if the phone company wasn't there to offer their services?”

The Insurance Salesman

Biff Rah said, “You look familiar. Didn't we go to school together?”

It was a funny thing for a man to say over the telephone.

But that's the way neighborhood insurance men in the suburbs were. They clutched at any straw to establish some common basis for your trust and your signature on an endowment. “Listen,” he said, “I know you are busy getting settled. Don't I know it? I'm ten years—and I'm still unpacking, right?”

“The children are a little ...”

“Hey, kids. Do I know kids?” he said. “Got five of them myself so I understand your problem. All I want to do is to come over and review whot you've got in the way of protection, and leave, okay?”

We agreed.

Biff grabbed my hand at the door, pumped it and said, “You look f'amiliar. Didn't we go to school together?”

“Not unless you wore a plaid jumper and knee socks. It was an all Girls' school.”

“I was the one with the knobby knees who never shaved!” he grinned, punching me in the arm and knocking me into the bookcases. “But seriously folks,” he said, whipping open his briefcase. “I didn't come here to make jokes. I simply dropped by to spell out a few facts of life. You've just moved into a new house, your kids are in their jammies watching TV, you're employed (nodding to my husband), you've got a car, and you (nodding at me) stay home and bake bread. You gotta be like this family here in the picture, right?”

We looked down to a page in his notebook at a picture depicting what had to be the All-American family with straight teeth, healthy gums, yellow hair, tennis sweaters, and a house behind them that looked like the Williamsburg..

“Now, what if this happened?” he asked dramatically and with a small brush that took no longer than fifteen seconds removed my husband from the picture.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“ You're missing the point,” he said irritably.' 'Now what happcns to that happy little family if Daddy is gone.

They’re repossessing the car. They're taking the house away. They're taking the furniture away. The children are crying. Mommy doesn't know which way to turn. Now, do you know what that means?"

“It means I get custody of the kids,” I snapped.

“It means Daddy didn't make plans.”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” I snapped.

“Lucky,” interrupted Biff, “it's not too late. There is still time to protect your loved ones with this twenty-year-pay life. While you are young, the premiums aren't too bad, hut in a few years when you develop those heart problems, circulatory disorders, high blood pressure, and an aneurysm, it may not be available to you at any price.”

My husband signed the agreement in mid-air. As I squeezed his hand in appreciation, Biff leaned down and addressed himself to our children. “I can tell by looking at you that Mommy has done a wonderful job. And you're not to blame her when she leaves and you are left alone to shift for yourselves.”

“Where am I going?” I asked.

“Face it. It's inevitable that someday you'll be going to that big utility room in the sky. May I ask you something? How much insurance do you carry on yourself?”

“I don't know,” I stammered, “my husband takes care of that.”

“I don't like to make trouble,” he said, “but usually a man will cover his wife with a policy which he considers to be her value to him.”

“How much am I covered for?” I asked.

“You have the basic $96-no-frill-no-fault-burial-policy,” he mumbled.

“Ninety-six bucks' That wouldn't bury a bird in a shoebox!”

“That's right,” said Biff. “Basically what this means is that when you go, they prop you up in a Christian Science reading room, play a record of Perry Como singing 'Don't Fence Me In,' put you on a public bus, and God knows what happens to you.”

We signed another policy.

As Biff got up to go he said, “You're such bright people I'm almost embarrassed to ask, but I have a responsibility to you. You are putting aside $50 a week for each child's education aren't you ? Don't bother to answer. Of course you are.”

“As a matter of fact,” said my husband, “we aren't.”

Biff shrugged, “Forget I mentioned it. I mean the chances are they'll never need it. Depressed and disappointed at the lack of opportunity, they will drop out of high school, pick up with another dropout who pumps gas, marry, and live in one room until the baby comes ...”

“Stop!” 1 shouted. “Tell us what to do.”

“Well, there are endowments. They're expensive, but it ill depends on what your children are worth to you.”

“They're worth everything we own.”

“That'll about cover it,” he smiled. “Well, you are wonderful people and a great little family and if, by some act of God, the house should burn to the ground, don't fail to call me and I'll try to work something out—contributions from neighbors, a phone call to an agency ...”

“You mean we're not covered?”

“It's so simple to be covered, it's hardly worth mentioning, but if you'll sign here, it's done.” My husband scribbled his signature.

“Listen,” said Biff, “I've overstayed my visit. I must be running along. And don' worry about the coverage on your car. Parents are great for pitching in when bad luck strikes. According to statistics, two out of every three cars will be involved in an accident this year, but who knows, you could be tlie lucky one. Anyway, welcome to Suburbian Gems— and don't you feel better now?”

The Antique Dealer

Some say the antique syndrome surfaced to offset the newness of the land, the homes, and the settlers.

Some say the interest was initiated by a desire to return to the roots of yesterday.

I contend the entire movement to acquire antiques was born out of sheer respect of things that lasted longer than Fifteen minutes.

Whatever the reason, in Suburbian Gems, there was an Eagle over every sofa, a slop jar of geraniums in every bathroom, and a deacon's bench in every hallway.

The weekends found every husband in the neighborhood sanding, sawing, staining, restoring, or stalking every antique dealer and show in the area.

My husband became an antique nut. I never saw a man become so possessed. He brought home white SuppHose, reputedly worn by Thomas Jefferson, a moose's head that had personally witnessed the Battle of Appomattox, and a primitive machine for storing water during the cattle drives west. (I didn't have the heart to tell him he bought the water cooler in the church hallway where they were holding the sale.)

It's hard to single out any one antique dealer for this documentary. They all had a different “style.” Some were “story tellers.” My husband loved the “story tellers.” They were the ones who if you bought a button would relate how this button was from the uniform of a Confederate soldier who had scratched the name jay on the back. His brother, who had been visiting north, joined the Union forces and he too had their family name, Jay, scratched on the back of one of his buttons. The two buttons would bring a price of $150. Unfortunately, he had only one, but if we would leave our phone number, when he came across the other one, he would give a call. In less than a week (isn't that unbelievable!) he called to say the other button had been found and was available.

There were the scavenger dealers who were like ambulance chasers. They watched the death notices and anyone over the age of forty-three got a visit from them to appraise and buy goodies from the estate. Scavenger dealers knew only one phrase, “Do you have any idea what we could have gotten for this pitcher/glass/bowl/ tumbler/plate/mirror/etc., had it not been cracked?” My husband loved the “scavenger dealers.” He always felt he was getting a real buy under the table from them.

There were also the “hustlers in bib overalls.” These were the little farmers who feigned surprise that someone would want to buy boards from a barn that was ready to fall down.

Mv husband loved the “barnyard hustlers.” He would tn|i tlir car, introduce himself, chew on a piece of hay, and talk about how the rains or drought had affected the crops. Then he would venture, “Hey, how much would you want for a couple of those old two-by-fours over there on your barn?”

'I'he farmers would give a little crooked smile and say, “You kiddin' me, mister? You mean those old faded, weathered boards, wormy with termites on that barn that a good wind would knock over?”

“Those are the ones,” said my husband.

“Oh, I suppose $50 would put 'em in your trunk.”

We were dealing with pros.

If I had to name one original settler who was known by everyone, it would have to be Miss Emma. Miss Emma whs a sweet, little, old lady whose farmhouse in the suburbs stuck out like a birth-control clinic in a retirement community.

There was no quaint sign flapping from her lamppost proclaiming, “antiques.” She never advertised. Never brought her wares to a show at the church. The word just got around that if Miss Emma answered the door on that particular day and was in a good mood, she “might” sell you some of her precious heirlooms right out from under her.

In truth, Miss Emma should have been voted by the Academy of Arts and Sciences as the year's Best Actress of any year.

Responding to your knock, she would open the door a crack and say, “Today isn't a good day. Come hack—say tomorrow?” which only made you more determined to somehow smuggle a checkbook into that house and cart away half of its furnishings.

Once inside, if you expressed an interest in, say a desk, she would throw her body in front of it protectively and say, “Oh no, this is the one thing I couldn't possibly sell. Martin (her late husband) would come right out of his grave. You see, it belonged to his great-grandmother who got it from a General Washburn.”