South Hood

Down the road from the up-scale neighborhood of South Wood, tucked behind a Shell gas station is a little trailer neighborhood. The streets are all female names and hardly anyone who actually lives here, owns here. There are many diverse occupants of this little neighborhood. You have the constant complainers, the nosey nancy, the rowdy ones, the dog hater, the hypocritical speed demon who screams at anyone who drives past his home, and these are just the occupants of these dwellings, not the owners.

The owners are a different breed and constantly fight among each other over available land. There’s the owner who has been here since day one, the old-timer, and has bought up all the properties surrounding him. Then you have the trouble-making owner who doesn’t live in the neighborhood but owns six or so lots. The troublemaker is constantly calling the authorities on the old-timer fir any and everything. The last large landowner is the tranquil woman who is buying up land, trying to restore the former beauty of the neighborhood. Lastly you have the individual owners, like myself, who constantly have to deal with nutty tenants surrounding us.

Now don’t get me wrong, there are some characters in the independents owner’s category. Up the street are the crack-heads, down the hill are the wannabe gangsters, and across the way is a pistol carrying southerner. Most of these homes contain families with young children. These children are wild, un-tamed, and un-afraid. Just the other day a girl, no more than two years old, was walking down the sidewalk alone with no parent in site.

The little boys in the neighborhood ride their bicycles all over the place, including the middle of the road. Ramping curbs and racking nerves are the only goals these boys seem to have. Many times I have been on my way out of the neighborhood and have had to come to a complete stop at the bottom of the hill, fearing the little boys were trying to play chicken with my truck. The boys would be at the top and I would be stopped at the bottom and they would fly down the hill and come zooming past the front of my truck, narrowly missing it. Remember the speed demon renters that scream at anyone who passes by there home? These wild children belong to them. You know what they say, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I find it interesting that the speed demons have now raised daredevils.

The nosey nancy/constant complainer lives directly to the right of me. The woman constantly yells at my guests. She complains constantly about an inch of tire being on her grass. The ironic part about it is that the grass in question is mine and technically her fence is on my property as well. This woman has called the fire department on us when we were grilling and if we have more than two cars in our driveway the sheriff’s office is called. To top it all off, this woman scream at my boyfriend any and every chance she gets. However, she has never said anything to me.
The constant complainer lives next door to the dog hater and they have teamed up to drive me mad. The dog hater just happens to despise my breeds of choice, American Bulldogs and Pit Bulls. So far the dog hater has killed two dogs and I wasn’t living here for more than a week when I got my first visit from the animal control. Mind you, both of my dogs are inside dogs that only go outside to pee. When the constant complainer isn’t calling the authorities the dog hater is calling animal control.

With all this nonsense off to my right, I get no reprieve from the rambunctious and rowdy people across the street. On a good week, only one sheriff will come by. The rowdy ones are teamed up with the crack heads on the corner. Any given night of the week you can see the crack heads zooming up and down the street in there red Toyota, doing only god knows what. As soon as the sun is up, the crack heads wont be found.

Once the sunrises the property wars are on again. The old-timer and the troublemaker begin circling the neighborhood. The dog hater and constant complainer begin sceaming up new plans. The wild child on the bike is back along with his parents and their need for speed. My father gave this neighborhood the funny little nickname of “South Hood” and now I see why. I haven’t even lived here a year yet.