You-Know-Who-Next-Door's Hoosit



You-know-who-next-door.

That’s what Grandma always called her grouchy neighbor with whom she shared a white picket fence along the border of their properties.

He had a name. Floyd Becker.

But Grandma almost never called him by name. And, if she mentioned him at all, it was with a lowered voice, as if by the proximity of their homes, he would be able to hear what she was saying through the walls.

Grandma and Floyd had numerous points of contention between them, but the biggest one of all was the fact that Grandma had both a bird feeder and a cat named Lulu.

As soon as Grandma started to speak in her sotto voce whisper, we knew who she was going to talk about, whether she mentioned him by name or not.

“You-know-who-next-door came up to me when I was emptying the garbage and said I should take down my birdfeeder because Lulu, was sitting underneath it licking her chops.

“I told him that last I knew, Lulu couldn’t fly, and unless she had learned how, there was no way in hell she could get to the bird feeder.

“He said that maybe a bird would want to eat the seed that fell to the ground, and if it did, Lulu would be waiting there to pounce on it -- and I told him that I couldn’t monitor the ground under the feeder and he shouldn’t either.”

We were used to hearing many stories like this.

One time You-know-who-next-door called Grandma on the phone to tell her that Lulu had killed one of his Cardinals, a bright, deep red one, prettiest Cardinal he’d ever seen.

Grandma replied, “Lulu doesn’t care what color bird she kills and they’re not your Cardinals anyhow…they belong to all of us, and they are at my feeder all the time. And Lulu only kills the sick birds because they others are smart enough and healthy enough to fly, which I will remind you again, Lulu can’t do”

So this day, when Grandma lowered her voice, before a word even came out of her mouth, we knew who was going to be the focal point of her story.

“You-know-who-next-door is way too sexed up. I told you this before -- after Grandpa died he’s gotten worse. Yesterday when I was hanging out the laundry he was staring over at me. Made me feel like he was undressing me with his eyes. Yuck!

"He’s got a lot of sex in him, I tell you – still – even though he’s got to be pushing 80 by now.”

We nodded. It was pleasant to be talking about You-know-who-next-door and not be talking about a bird/cat altercation for a change. Still Grandma’s line about undressing her with this eyes was a bit much to hear.

“And, he’s undressing by the window – every night…exactly at 8 PM like clockwork. He gets right up to the window, curtains opened, shade up, light on in the room and takes off his pants!

“Can you imagine? He’s doing that for my benefit, I’ll bet you anything. I have a mind to call the police and report him but I can’t because his poor wife would be humiliated. So I let it go, but I don’t like that one bit.

We nodded again. Then we switched to the “no” head shake…hoping this would get Grandma off the subject as our minds were now envisioning You-know-who-next-door in his altogether. Not a pleasant vision in our minds.

“Every night now, right before 8, I turn off the lights and go to the blinds and peek out and sure enough, there he is, naked as a jay parading in front of the window for all to see. Utterly Deeeeeeee-sgusting!

“I’m telling you his “hoosit” isn’t much to look at - at his age. Nope, nothing to write home about.”

We wanted to point out to Grandma that she didn’t have to go to the window each night and watch, but figured it was easier to just move our heads around -- alternating between “up-and-down nods” and “side-to-side nos.”

When we piled into the car after our visit, we could barely wait till we turned the corner before we started to shriek with laughter. When we finally stopped laughing, one of us would say the words: “You-know-who-next-door’s hoosit” and we’d all dissolve into gales of laughter again.

Grandma, her ways, her stories, her words, could do that to you.