Different has always attracted me; as in strange, weird, odd, bizarre…..that kind of different.

I was told by the two women across the street that our neighbor in the house next door was weird.

Right next door…..a weirdo, imagine.

How lucky was that?

The house next door was a 3-story Victorian hidden behind Monterey Pines so tall that none of it could be seen from the front. But, we could see the entire back yard from one of our upstairs bedroom patios. It was a deep double lot and it looked like a beautiful manicured park; loaded with trees and flowers in so many shades of so many colors. A bench made of river rock was placed so the waterfall and Koi Fish in the pond could be enjoyed. It was like a page in a book. A heavenly place to sit and think or maybe NOT think, maybe meditate or just BE.

One afternoon I was at my computer trying to concentrate and grab on to the right words. I was struggling so decided to look out the window and just forget about it for a while. I was staring at the side of the house next door when I realized that way up at the top, there was one little window. My imagination got loose, went a little wild and I was sure I saw Norman Bates’ mom…..Mrs Bates. She was up there, sitting in her chair slowly rocking back and forth. That yanked me out of my trance. I pulled down the bamboo covering on that window and never lifted it again until the day we moved out of the house on Willow Street. And I never looked up there again either.

The first time I saw Chuck I didn’t know who he was, didn’t know he was my neighbor. He was dressed in military fatigues, had one of those outback Australian bush hats on with pull chin-cords dangling down each side of his face and big black floppy rubber boots that almost reached his knees. He was in the middle of the street pushing a broom, sweeping Lighthouse Avenue. I thought it a little strange but maybe there was a reason why that man was out in the middle of the street sweeping. I couldn’t see anything but maybe he could.

I met Nancy, Chuck’s wife one day when she was outside. She welcomed me to the neighborhood and we tossed a couple comments back and forth about the weather. She was carrying groceries in from the old black SUV that was parked in front of her house most every evening. She was pretty; tiny and petite maybe 50 and as perfect in her appearance as the tall, manicured trees in her front yard. Her dark hair was neatly in place, pulled up into some kind of a bun on the back of her head and held there with a big clip. Her lips had a faint color of pink lipstick. She wore dark slacks and a sweater was casually tossed over her shoulders and on top of a white button-down blouse.

Exact opposite of our other neighbor.

Hippie on one side, conservative on the other and us in the middle.

One morning the doorbell rang and to my surprise the street sweepin’ guy in the fatigues, hat and boots was standing there on my porch. He said he was Chuck, the guy next door and he needed to check one of our patios; said he was shooting pigeons and he thought a couple dropped on the upstairs patio! Um…..OK! Bwana Don went up the stairs and within minutes came back down with a large black plastic garbage bag bulging at the bottom. The bulge wasn’t moving.

“Got a couple. Maybe that’ll get the word out to those damn pigeons to stay the hell away from my yard. All they are is damn rats with feathers.”

I’d never thought of pigeons that way…..flying feathered rats!

And he was out the door, no further conversation.

And that’s how it went with Chuck.

For the seven wonderful years we lived on Willow Street we saw Chuck almost every day. He always seemed busy and involved with something and we never saw him dressed any way other than the fatigues, hat and boots.

From time to time, our bell would ring and he’d be standing there.

Once when I opened the door, he said he just wanted to tell us that we should turn our porch light off at night, it was bothering him.

Well excuse friggin’ us for usin’ the porch lite, CHUCKIE!!

We compromised on that one with a lower watt bug-lite.

One door-bell time Chuck just wanted to warn us that he was waging war on a few raccoons in his back-yard at nighttime and we shouldn’t be alarmed at any noises we heard.

He went on to explain that mostly he was after the one he called Big Bull. He’d been hunting Big Bull in his back yard for almost 10 months trying to make him stay away and out of his yard. He named him Big Bull because he said he weighed at least 30 pounds. Chuck said Big Bull would look him right in the eyes with a bold, challenging stare.

Big bull had broken into his gated trash area three different times but worse than that was he had an appetite for Chuck’s Koi fish.

He was aware that raccoons were a protected animal in Pacific Grove with laws against harming them but it became war and “what he did in his back yard was his business!”

He said he tried everything he could think of to keep Big Bull out of his yard; lighting, moth balls, sprinkled ammonia, yelled and threw rocks but nothing seemed to phase Big Bull.

Even the Coon Hound that Chuck bought from Tennessee and had flown to Monterey, didn’t stop Big Bull. The Coon Hound turned out to be a lover, not a fighter. Oh we’re sure he saw Big Bull and the gang because he howled all hours of every night…..loud and long but he didn’t keep Big Bull out of the yard and the Koi kept disappearing.

It wasn’t long before the nightly howling stopped and the Coon Hound disappeared.

He’d tried everything, it all failed. Finally he was forced to act on his last resort…..the Machetti. That’s what he told us when it was over. Said he taped a Machetti to the end of a broomstick and sat out in the dark and waited for him. When he showed up, Chuck jumped out at him with his weapon. He thought he’d run but nope Big Bull came at him, growling and staring eyes to eyes.

“I shoved that Machetti right in his gut and that S.O.B. kept comin’ at me. He wouldn’t give up.” But Chuck held his ground and the broomstick-Machetti and within minutes it was Adios Big Bull!

One 4th of July evening just before dark our grandson was outside playing. He was riding his skateboard up and down the sidewalk. My girls and I were sitting on the back patio just girl-talkin’ and laughin’. Suddenly we noticed flashing red lights bouncing off of Chuck and Nancy’s house. We zipped through our house and to the front porch just as a stretcher was being loaded on to the EMT Rescue Vehicle.

Our five-year-old grandson ran up the porch steps as quick as his little legs would let him.

He said, “Chuck’s in the ambulance and I saw him and he looks like this……….” at that point, he rolled his big blue eyes to the back of his head and let his tongue hang out to the side of his mouth.

“THAT’S how Chuck looked?” I asked, startled.

He nodded his head up and down.

Woa…..that sounded dead to me.

Chuckie?

Dead?

The next day there was a stream of cars coming to the three story Victorian where Chuck and Nancy lived.

It didn’t feel good and it wasn’t.

Chuck really had died on that summer night just before the P.G. 4th of July fireworks began.

That was Chuck.

A strange man for sure…..

A Viet Nam Vet who wore his fatiques every day along with his hat and big black boots. He swept streets, shot pigeons, and hunted raccoons.

Yep, he was labeled weird in the neighborhood and…..OK he WAS but he was also an interesting man to know and a “trip” to talk with.

That’s the sad part of this story.

We waited a few weeks after things seemed to calm next door and then one afternoon we caught Nancy outside.

It was hard to approach her and difficult to find meaningful words but we needed to do it. She made it easy for us and we talked about Chuck for a while. She told us like so many others, he came back from Viet Nam a different person and suffered with PTSD for the rest of his life. And not only did Chuck suffer but his 3 daughters missed the dad he once was. Nancy explained that even though they lived locally their visits were rare and for only short periods of time, it was hard for them to deal with who their dad had become.

A few months after Chuck died, we noticed the old black SUV had been replaced with a shiny, new, red Mercedes convertible.

And most week-ends we heard music, laughter and lots of happy voices coming from the beautiful back yard that Chuck built. They were using it and enjoying it instead of it just being there. Sometimes I’d look down from the patio and see them all there in the back yard. More than once I noticed his daughters at different times sitting alone on the bench looking past the pond and up toward the heavens. I like to believe they reconnected with their dad.

And, that’s the happy part of this story.