Moving out of my apartment was the saddest thing I've ever done in my life. More depressing than my last day at work, more frightening than my first night at college, and more exhausting than the company 5k I ran a few years back; I had no idea how much stuff I had accumulated over time. It was simply astounding. I boxed everything up though, for I knew I'd have plenty of room where I was going. I must say it started out very well: moving in, getting everything set up, even meeting the neighbors went by very quickly and painlessly. I thought I would run into some work withdrawal, but aside from waking up at 4:30 each morning, alarm set or not, I didn't observe any noticeable effects.The troubles started around April, about a month after I moved in. When the middle-aged real estate agent and I had taken that drive, everything was still somewhat brisk, slacks and sweater, or a light windbreaker and long sleeve shirt weather to be exact, and the green leaves were just starting to break out once again. Now though, Spring was in full effect, and I spent every day wondering how green it would get. On my morning walk, the greener and thicker lawns would mesmerize me with their glorious hue, lulling me into a slight hypnosis of deep, lush green and controlled breathing. It had never occurred to me that the quickly-growing forest of grass had to be taken care of. Then they started, as if on queue, some signal hooked up to everyone's microwave or delivered with the Sunday edition, the sound of lawn mowers.At first they were concentrated during the weekends, tapering off during the week, accentuating that lazy Sunday feeling with a constant drone in the background. I even went out and purchased my own mower, nothing extravagant or gaudy of course; my gold watch is only worth so many trips to the bank. Still now, after everything that's happened, I must say I found the sound of them somewhat annoying. I was the new fish in the pond, so I tried to adapt, attending Sunday dinners with the Mortons, the Adelaides, the Sachs, and the Lolises. All nice people really, at least it seemed so on the surface. Throughout the spring, I could never get over the intensity of Bud Lolis' lawn. I even asked him once (we were talking about a good sealant for my deck and I thought now was as good a time as any for enquiring), to which he just laughed and said "TLC." Of course I know now what that meant but I must confess that at the time, I was a bit lost.So the weather got better and The Country came alive. Kids were outside every day now after school, playing with squirt guns or having small expeditions across the development to the playground situated on the north side. The neighborhood's flowers grew taller and a few rainstorms seemed to hatch every bug known to man. I actually found a spider on my pillow one night as I was preparing for bed. Of course a little panic was unavoidable but, with a few minutes, I regained control and disposed of him properly (Ted Sachs says he's got them too, and John Morton even claims to have snakes in his basement!). Every day held a new surprise for me; I wasn't missing work at all.Then the bugs (I don't know if they're all crickets or what) started at night, a constant high-pitched hum, rising above my Berlioz at night and reverberating through my shower before bed. At first I was somewhat grateful for their emergence, since, to tell the complete truth, I'd had trouble sleeping in the silence. After a few weeks however, the drone had gone from mildly relaxing to unconsciously frustrating. I didn't notice the sound anymore, but I would frequently wake up a few minutes earlier than 4:30, sometimes as early as 4:07! I attribute other subtle changes of my behavior to this insect infestation as well: For one the muscles in my back tightened up, and my ears grew more sensitive. It's not as intrusive as a wailing siren or an irate homeless person who's had one too many, but I have strong words for anyone that say The Country is a quiet place to live.Chapter Three
