Widow(in the ')hood . . .

I was out at Wrenwood yesterday, moving a few more boxes back home (I love saying that, home . . .) doing some painting (just closet interiors right now—freshen things up a bit, they were so scuffed and grubby; still trying to decide on a color for the kitchen), and was up to my armpits in paint when my phone rang. Caller ID showed my security system at the house in St. Paul. I dropped the paint roller and quickly answered. "This is FrontPoint Security, and we're getting an alarm for a possible burglary at. . ." Suddenly, my head felt tight, my throat constricted, and I could hardly talk. They continued,"Would you like us to dispatch the police?" Yes, of course! I choked the words into the phone. At the same time, I'm imagining my dogs harmed, the house ransacked, my computers, with all of Bob's photos, walking out the door, . . . I'm about 1/2 hour away, but I'm leaving right now! I ran through the house as I spoke with the dispatcher, threw paint roller and paint tray into the mud room sink, paint splattering all over the sink and backsplash, quickly twisted the lid onto the paint can, turned off all the lights and bolted out the door.

As I tore down I94, I suddenly remembered that I had called my landlord earlier, to tell him about the bathtub faucet leaking and the hinge on the basement door needing repair. He had said he might have time later in the day, to swing by to fix it; I had told him I wouldn't be around but to let himself in, but just realized I forgot to tell him about my security system . . . please, please let it be my landord at the house, please let it be my landlord . . .no sooner did I think this though when my phone rang. "So, did you forget that I was coming by today?" were my landlord's first nonchalant words. I couldn't help but laugh in utter relief. I'm so sorry! You didn't say for sure you were coming by, and I haven't had to call you for anything since I got my alarm system, so I didn't even think of telling you about it! "Well, it's okay, I just unplugged the unit and then told the cops who I was when they arrived. I fixed the tub and the basement door and locked up after I left, but the cops might still be at your house, waiting for you . . ." I was so giddy with relief it didn't even occur to me until much later, how unsettling it was that the SPPD actually let him get by with that "story . . ."

Which is how this "little story" leads into a series of "little stories" that I've wanted to share for a while now, because they're at once so disturbing and so comical, but they just keep happening, which makes the story hard to tell, from beginning to end, because so far, there is no end . . .but I shall try. . .

So, one evening, back toward end of September, around 9 p.m., I was interrupted mid-writing by a loud knock on the front door of this old house. Rocco immediately erupted into alarm-bark mode—through the front window next to the door (I still had no curtains on any of the windows at this point), I saw a figure standing on my porch, then the beam of a flashlight lit up a badge on the chest of a police officer standing in the window. Oh my god! The cops?!? Well, better the cops than anyone else I guess. . .

Keeping Rocco's almost threatening 40 lb. snarling body in front of me, I opened the front door juuuust enough for both of us to squeeze our heads between the crack. Two officers stood on my porch, notebooks in hand; they apologized for disturbing me so late, but in the next breath, proceeded to tell me that my next door neighbor had been burglarized at some point in the day. Did you happen see anything or anyone suspicious in the area at any time of the day? Did you personally experience anything at your property? Were you home all day? Did you leave at any point . . .

No, no, no! To all of the above, I stammered, suddenly, inexplicably filled with guilt (residual of my half-assed Catholic upbringing? Perhaps . . .), What happened? Is she okay? Apparently, suspects gained entry through a window in the back, took a TV and were gone, they told me. Neighbor wasn't home when it happened, so yes, she is okay. They're just checking with others, to find out if anyone saw any suspicious activity or people in the area at any point. . . I mentally rifled through the activities of my day: I was home most of the day—no, wait! I ran a few errands mid-day, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary, before or after . . . but then again, I am kind of in the throes of all-consuming grief right now, so I don't notice much of anything these days—did I even shower today? Wonder if they're thinking I look like a crackhead who wouldn't be above breaking into my neighbor's house, to steal a TV to sell on the street to feed my nasty habit. . .

After hearing the details of the break-in, I asked if they, in their professional opinion, thought an alarm system might be a good thing, being a single woman, living alone in this neighborhood. They pointed to Rocco, said I already had the best security system available. I looked at them, then down at Rocco. This mutt?! Well, he does bark at anything and everything that moves outside, usually when I least expect it, to my shredded nerves' dismay. . . I asked what else I could do to protect myself; they said best thing was to be vigilant about the neighborhood and my surroundings, get to know my neighbors, become familiar with who is coming and going, report any suspicious person or activity, asap. With that happy news, they bid me goodnight. I really didn't think much more of the burglary after they left. Sure, I was a little rattled, and truly felt bad that my neighbor—also a single woman—had been burglarized, but rationalized that it can happen anywhere, that it had to be a random event. And it is true, the part about being in the throes of all-consuming grief—not a whole lot else really matters right now, on this leg o' the journey . . .

Maybe a week later, I took the dogs on their nightly walk and when I got home, I noticed a blue piece of paper tucked into my mailbox that definitely wasn't there earlier, since I had already gotten my mail. I pulled it out and read about a neighborhood block meeting in the works, due to the "recent rash of burglaries and other crimes" in the neighborhood . . .a rash of burglaries?! AND other crimes?! One burglary is no big deal, a rash of various criminal activity is a big deal . . .

I attended the gathering, which ended up being a wonderful opportunity (albeit, due to a very unfortunate series of events) to meet many of my immediate neighbors; we also got to meet and talk with two police officers who routinely patrol our 'hood. I learned that not only was my next-door neighbor burglarized, but so was the woman who hosted the gathering, who lives right behind me (happened while she was home, btw), as were several other homes within a few blocks radius of the house I'm renting.

The officers said that several St. Paul neighborhoods have been targeted over the summer, their theory was that the unseasonably long and warm summer/fall extended the "work season" of criminals, but also that many of the crimes are "crimes of opportunity," garage doors left open, windows unlocked, valuables left in plain sight in vehicles; my theory is that during the summer, well into the fall and even into the mild winter, many houses in the neighborhood were having work done—roofs repaired, houses being repainted, siding replaced—in response to a big storm that had blown through (before I moved in). The neighborhood has been teeming with construction crews, countless people who aren't from the area, who very likely were scoping out the 'hood, keeping track of comings and goings . . .

As I talked with the neighbors, I started to think that maybe it wasn't a bad thing that Gaia didn't come indoors any more and that Rocco barks at anything and everything, and that maybe I should just stay within the confines of my old house, curtains drawn and rock the crazy widow stereotype for all it's worth . . . Of course, I didn't share this out loud, but I did express concern, being new in the neighborhood and living alone. Most of the neighbors present at the meeting have lived in the area for many years, and assured me that this is a crazy aberration, that yes, of course a random break-in occurs now and then, but to this degree is just unheard of, and they're all now a little on edge . . .

We created a phone number and e-mail list, agreed that this block club is a good thing, to reconnect the residents, make a stronger neighborhood presence, to encourage everyone to do a better job of keeping an eye out for each other—someone even suggested a block club Facebook page, as another means to keep neighbors informed on activity (about the only redeeming quality of Facbook, in my not-so-humble opinion . . . but that's a blog for another time . . .). I also learned more fascinating history of my neighborhood, that most of the houses on my block had been abandoned and in various states of abandonment and ill-repair when they were auctioned off for a dollar back in the 70s and 80s—back when the neighborhood was really rough around the edges. My landlord was one of the first who bought his house for a dollar, I was told, fixed it up and raised his family here—and his wife was a very active member of the first neighborhood block club, "back in the day." His son and his wife now live in that very house . . .but that too, is another blog for another time . . .

After the meeting, I walked home, just around the corner and a few doors down. It was about 9 p.m., and I noticed my other next-door neighbor's garage door was open (who also happens to be my landlord's son, and who also happens to be storing my snowblower, since I have no garage). Crime of opportunity, JUST WAITING TO HAPPEN! One of many topics we had just discussed at our newly formed block club meeting! Maybe they just got home and have yet to close the door, I thought. I'll take the dogs on our nightly walk, and if the door is still open, then I'll take action!

When I returned from walking the dogs, the garage door was still open. Being the good neighbor that I, that very evening, committed to being, I took Gaia with me and went to their front door and knocked. The main floor was dark but I saw lights on on upstairs and heard their dogs barking inside. After several minutes of knocking and waiting, no one came to the door. I started to feel a little foolish—they're newlyweds, for the love of god, and here I am, nosey, widowed Mrs. Kravitz, pounding on the door at damn near 10 p.m. Talk about coitus-interruptus . . .I turned around and started for home, but just couldn't shake the persistent feeling that I had to get a hold of them somehow, if for no other reason, because I would feel so bad if something did happen . . . I decided to call my landlord, in one last attempt to get a hold of his son. I walked the two doors down to my house but stopped in his son's driveway as I made the call, standing maybe five feet from the open, yet darkened, garage.

As I waited for an answer, I contemplated sticking my head inside the garage to see if there was an interior switch, so I could close it for him. But my landlord's wife answered before I had a chance to do that. I told her that I had just come back from a newly formed neighborhood group that addressed all the break-ins and burglaries going on in the neighborhood, and was trying contact her son, to let him know his garage door was open . . . I was feeling more foolish with each word, sounding more and more like a meddling nutcase, the more I babbled. But, she thanked me profusely, said she was so glad to hear the block group has been revived, though under such unfortunate circumstances and would definitely try to get a hold of her son right away. . .

Feeling I'd done all I could, I hung up and walked Gaia home, hooked her to her tie-out in the backyard and went inside. Not a minute later, I heard my neighbor's car alarm go off; I looked out my un-curtained kitchen window, didn't see anything. Several minutes later, I saw a light on in the garage and my landlord's son walking around in his garage, figured he must have inadvertently set his car alarm off. Finally! My work as SuperNeighbor is done for the night! I can hang up my cape and go to bed . . .

Next day, my neighbor and his wife showed up on my doorstep, with a little bag of handmade chocolates. I looked at them with confusion—kinda late with the housewarming gift, I thought. "This is just a small token, to thank you for stopping a burglary in progress," they told me. What?!? "Yes, we were burglarized last night; thieves pried open the side door of our garage, opened the main door and made off with my bike, some odds 'n' end tools—your snowblower is safe, though . . ." He had read my mind. I asked about the car alarm—no, he didn't set off his alarm, the thieves likely did, maybe trying to break into the car, or bumping it in a rapid, clumsy exodus . . . he continued to talk but all I could think of was that the thieves had been in the garage five feet from me, as I stood in their driveway, talking to his mother . . .

That day, curtains went up on every window, and as soon as I could, I installed an alarm system in the house. I thought about the two handguns Bob used to have, that I gave away (I had no idea what to do with them—he "used" them for target shooting, though I could count on one hand the number of times he ever did that with those guns), thinking maybe now was time to take a firearm safety class . . . thought about a few more locks for the doors . . .

. . .a day later, I kid you not, before I could decide what else I could do to barricade myself in this old house—I had just returned home from a lovely stroller walk with my nephew Otto, in the late morning. I sat him in the high chair in the kitchen and started making lunch. I walked past the living room windows and noticed a squad car parked outside my neighbor's house. Oh, no, not Mary, again! I pulled the curtain back, looking for any sign of "action." It looked like an officer was sitting in the front seat, but nothing else seemed to be going on. Maybe the police are just trying to make more of a presence in our area, after all the recent incidents . . .

I returned to the kitchen to finish making lunch. I fed Otto, cleaned up and then, curiosity getting the better of me, I went back to the front windows. In that short time, the squad car count went from one to no fewer than eight, the entire block outside my house, up and down both sides of the street, were lined with of police cars; suddenly, several officers took off on foot down the sidewalk past my house, toward a house a few doors down . . .I ran back to the kitchen where Otto was, grabbed my phone and called 911. . .the dispatcher couldn't tell me anything because it's an active, open case; all she could say is that there were suspects "at large" in my neighborhood, to stay in the house and away from windows and doors . . .

I headed upstairs with little O-man, sat him on the bed with a handful of toys (safely away from windows), while I peered through my bedroom windows to the scene unfolding below. After nearly a half an hour, an officer escorted a scruffy-looking young man with wild hair and unshaven face into the squad car parked in front of my house; even from my hiding spot, I swear the dude looked up and made eye contact with me . . . down the street, another 20-something looking man was cuffed and led into another unmarked car. It took nearly an hour for all the squad cars to eventually depart.

I called the non-emergency police number and was given the direct number of the investigating officer, but was told I may as well wait, because no one would be able to tell me anything for 24-48 hours, till the final report was filed. With trembling hands, I called my landlord, got his wife on the other line again, told her what had happened, told her that I was getting another dog. She hesitated, I countered—both next door neighbors, including her own son, have been burglarized, neighbor behind me was burglarized, now this, a damn SWAT team in my own front yard, all within a few short weeks. I am getting another dog. Period. She actually conceded to my frantic demand. . .

I didn't sleep at all for several weeks straight. I could hardly eat, I suddenly felt like a prisoner in my own home. What if someone was watching my neighborhood? If I leave, they'll know. If I stay, would that still matter, given some of the break-ins have occurred when residents were home? Should I get a roommate? A big, burly bouncer (and of course, gay) type? I didn't actually get another dog—I started thinking about what a mess that would be, figuratively and literally—three dogs in a rental house, no fenced yard, Gaia hates other dogs—a traumatic scenario just waiting to happen. I didn't get a gay power-lifting-bouncer of a roommate, either. Scared as I was, I still like and need my own space. . .

I eventually called the number for the investigating officer of The Incident. He told me that what occurred on my block was the result of a diligent homeowner who had seen a break-in in progress at a neighbor's house three doors down from me, and called 911. The two suspects were apprehended without further incident . . . he said that he grew up in my neighborhood, back when it was really rough 'n' tumble—when you wouldn't be caught dead outside in the light of day—and that it is truly has come a long way, so far, in fact, that he would still be living here, but he can't afford to buy a house (no kidding—a house on my street is for sale, listed at nearly half a million bucks). He assured me that what's going on is definitely not "the norm" of my neighborhood, to not let these incidents scare me off, because Cathedral Hill is truly one of St. Paul's most beautiful, historic and wonderful areas in which to live. . .

In spite of the officer's words, in spite of my neighbors' assurances, in spite of the "reputation" of Cathedral Hill, on top of everything else, I was suddenly scared. Shitless. I have been many things in the past eight months since Bob's death, but scared has not been part of the repertoire of issues on my grief journey. Until the culmination of these events. And I wasn't just scared about what was happening literally in my front and back yard, but suddenly, with glaring clarity, scared of all the things I now have to face, alone. Funny, how that never truly occurred to me, till these events started happening . . . if I I've said it before, I'll say it again, grief is an astoundingly irrational, erratic journey, so full of starts, stops, startling realizations that slam into me and knock me to my knees, at the most ridiculous times . . .

But quite honestly, surprisingly, I was not (and still am not) scared for my life. I'm scared that someone will break in and hurt my dogs in the progress. I'm scared that someone will take all that I have left that is connected to Bob. My computer with all his pictures, my phone that still holds all our text messages and a few saved voice mail messages from when he was at Bethesda (that I listen to at least once a week), his cameras, his neckties, our snowshoes . . . suddenly, I was overcome with overwhelming fear that Wrenwood was vulnerable, too, because I wasn't there. There isn't much left in the house, but still. . .

Grief knows nothing about being rational. It doesn't care that my life is more valuable than "things" that can (and should be) backed up, insured and/or replaced. It does not take a truly Zen-approach and believe that they truly are just things, nothing more. My grief just cares that these things, right now, are all I physically have, to connect myself to Bob. When look at his pictures, when I touch his neckties, when I wrap myself in one of his fleece jackets, when I listen to an old voice mail message, these things break through the endless horrible images of his last year and a half on earth, and bring my Bob, healthy Bob, back to me, if for only a moment . . . my emotions, my entire mind, body and soul have been on tightly wound, high-alert since Bob died . . . the endless break-ins have heightened this irrational response and added a whole new layer on top of, tightened the vice grip of the trauma. . . weeks went by, in this "state. . ." I didn't want to leave my house, I didn't want to stay in the house, I still had our other house on the market and every time I drove out for a showing, I cried. I cried all the way home again. . . once again reminded, with blinding clarity, that right now, I am truly living alone in an in-between world . . .

Late November, the action continued . . . after I turned off my bedside lamp late one evening, I glanced out the bedroom window down to the street below. Illuminated by the street light, a squad car was parked outside my house. I saw an officer get out, walk over to a car across the street, from which a well-dressed man emerged; officer turned him to face his car, frisked him up and down, escorted him to the squad car, and then proceed to go back to the man's car and remove briefcases and other items from the vehicle, searching each one as he did. . . yup, once again, right outside my front door. But a strange thing happened. This time, my reaction hardly registered on any scale. I watched for another minute or so, then crawled into bed and waited for another fitful night's sleep to eventually settle in. Numb? Indifferent? Desensitized? Finally "used to" the city?

With the colder weather, the activity started to dwindle (the neighborhood police reports we receive via e-mail now, started showing fewer and fewer "incidents" every week, till we're down, once again, to the garden-variety outdoor criminal activity—car break-ins, vandalism, narcotic "sales" . . .). Or, it could very well have to do with neighbors starting to reconnect with each other, whether face-to-face or via e-mail/facebook messages—and really working building a sense of community (we even had a caroling party early December). . .I do think that having the two dogs (and a security system) has been a deterrent, though not fool-proof, I'm not that foolish to believe. . .

Maybe the therapy and group sessions I've been religiously attending, all the books on grief and death/dying I've been reading, the online "research" I've been doing, talking to other widows—all the information-gathering I'm doing is helping to soften my sharp, jagged edges, bringing a tinge of rational mind back . . . maybe it's just the passage of time . . . maybe I just slipped into "I really give even less of a shit what happens to anything" mode . . . a few months later, I could even joke about all the "action" in my 'hood: Mom: Are those sirens in the background? Me: Sirens? What sirens? That's just the musical sounds of the city, Mom . . . though, I still waken at the slightest sound, still sleep with my phone right next to my head, as often as not, sleep on the couch in the living room (I feel less "trapped" for some reason). . .

But I think I'm getting "better," maybe getting used to the action of the city. Even with the crazy number of incidents and my acute fear, it still hasn't stopped me from walking the dogs twice a day, morning and night. Still hasn't stopped me from walking down to a local watering hole or restaurant on a rare occasion, to meet a friend for dinner or a drink. Not long ago, I was wakened by the sound of two cars driving very slowly down my street (my bedroom windows face the road, and as I said, I've become a feather-weight sleeper; the cars just "sounded" odd, in my half-sleep state, which woke me). Suddenly, my bedroom was illuminated by blinding white light, then black, then blinding white again. I peered over my pillow, out my bedroom window and watched two squad cars rolling down the road, spotlights arcing across the yards as they slowly trolled the neighborhood. Seriously, I thought, what the hell . . . and rolled over, back to sleep . . .

I have been many things out at Wrenwood. Happy. Sad. In love. In horror. Joyous. Angry. Despondent. Delighted. Depressed. Relaxed. Traumatized. Peaceful. Furious. Calm. Helpless. Grateful. Grieving . . . But never, ever scared. At least not this way, under these circumstances. In spite of the crazy events in the 'hood this fall, I do love St. Paul, I adore this neighborhood, have really enjoyed getting to know my neighbors, the local shops, meandering the streets, admiring the architectural wonders. . . I do think that some day, under different circumstances, I would like to be back. But right now, Wrenwood is calling me back home, and that is where I most want to be. Home.