Once upon a time, but specifically in September of 2011, I bought a house right on the isthmus* of a thriving metropolis by the name of Madison, Wisconsin. This was back when that was an achievable thing for a single 30-year-old to do. Quite honestly, I still can’t grasp the logistics of how this actually happened, it’s all kind of a blur, similar to that time I ended up with two rescue cats minutes after college graduation in an apartment they weren’t allowed: I found myself rocking back forth on the ground in my empty living room with that how did I get here anxious creep of a feeling, you know the one. I never wanted to carry the weight of being tied to…anything. And a house felt like an anchor you used to drown a body, like I just watched Tom from Ripley do on Netflix. (Side note, I may be in love with Andrew Scott and yes I know he’s gay, I can’t help how I feel, story of my life.)

But when you have friends in real estate and finance, they sort of hold your hesitant hand and do everything for you and then all of a sudden you have a house! Whoops. Though I must tip my hat to my finance guy whom, after our initial “meeting” pushed my “goals” back to me and said mmkay, come back when you’re serious. 

It became serious when I needed more room for my cats, who were both extremely up in my business, contrary to popular cat culture. What can I say, counterculture seeks me out in a multi-faceted fashion. 

Anyhow, that’s how I met Anita and Brian. Brian is the neighbor who told me all about the porch pirates, which explained the mesh barrier covering their porch spindles, so no one could see what wasn’t there to steal. At first this seemed wildly unnecessary in our sleepy neighborhood tucked between an elementary school and defunct dairy plant, but became more relevant with every tick of the last 13 years. A few weeks ago a neighborhood Regular (I know him well, though he never seems to remember me) attempted to draft papers to co-own a bike from my back porch, which requires intimate entrance into my space. I would’ve probably just let it be stolen, even with all the crashing I just assumed was my own DIY doing (welcome to my mind), and NOT all the picture frames his drunk ass was knocking off the walls, but Fred was absolutely losing his shit, so I had to personally investigate to show him nothing was there, Mom just thinks it’s a good idea to use double-sided sticky tape to fix things to the wall, knowing perfectly well they will eventually fall in a fiery crash at 3AM (happened twice). Sure shocked the shit out of all of us when something WAS there, awkwardly holding my bike halfway out the door. 

Whoa whoa whoa. Pause. He looked terrified. I was in a bit of amazed disbelief myself at his brazen attempt in the 1PM daylight, so I asked him if he needed something. He informed me that the bike hanging closer to the door had flat tires. I thanked him for letting me know, but I’d prefer him not take either of my bikes, can I help him with anything else? And he says twenty dollars. Naturally I told him not to move while I magically retrieved a $20 from inside, leaving Fred to do what Fred does (we were born to be together), handing it over with a plea of dude, never again, if you need something, ask, don’t just take. We’re not all assholes. Though to be fair, most of us are sometimes, and also some of us are a lot of the time. It’s a gamble, dude.

I realized his predicament. Probably why I find myself perpetually stuck in the middle of the same basic life plot: a nice-in-another-life guy tries to steal my hard earned bike from my house, and I end up feeling bad about it. Emphasis (but not too much) on the my, my and I.

But like, I’ve also had several people (or maybe only one many times) walk away with a good number of potted plants over the years, and one fancy farmer’s market family pushing a stroller lift a Yeti from my patch of curb grass that I was literally in the middle of unpacking, just letting the water drain. My backdoor camera (Disclaimer: I was forced to install this to quench my Harriet the Spy w/a dash of Nancy Drew and the Case of the Missing Plants curiosity) caught them examining the still cold butter and cream and hummus inside, looking around guiltily before deciding, if it was near the curb it must be for the taking. Also not totally abnormal, we put free shit on the curb with signs like Help Yourself! and Free! all the time. But if you’re going to take something from me with even a hint of questioning another possible logical reason a still cold Yeti next to an open garage door with the back of the truck exposed, clearly with camping gear scattered about, I would respect you more if you actually needed it. Such is the life of a fortunate homeowner in the city. 

But this is about Anita and Brian.

For years and years I never really saw either of them, pretty much ever. And then Brian retired. I have no idea what he did with his days before this day, but one morning he emerged from his cocoon, taking up residency on his front porch with his ukulele and a pack of cigarettes. Weeks after that, Brian’s voice sat second chair. It was mesmerizing. I couldn’t believe my luck. I strategized normal-appearing ways to wander around outside. He quietly escaped back inside so as not to bother me. I began to feel bad for invading his space. He became slinkier with his retreats. I concocted stealthier ways to eavesdrop. The dance went on.

At some point I finally caught him mowing my lawn, which he started doing in his excess of time with the dexterity of a ninja in the night. Not this time. I ran outside to thank him. P.S. You play beautiful music. That’s when I heard that line about going inside so as not to bother me.

Well this is awkward, I’m coming outside just to listen.

Can you imagine the astronomical level our anxiety might have reached, just being exactly who we are in our own homes, but within sight of our (gasp) neighbor, had we not had that conversation? What a gift, intentional communication! Capable of orchestrating the transformation of anxiety into understanding and appreciation. It’s a wild, wild world without it.

*Big sigh*

2020 rolls in, Brian and Anita decide to move closer to their kids in Massachusetts, which I learned when I happened upon Anita surrounded by all her indoor plants on her outdoor porch in September. Anita was the first person to inform me, oh honey, you can never have too many plants, when I told her I had too many plants and thus, couldn’t take any of hers. I had seven. Seven plants at the time. Ask me how many I have now. 

But that’s now. This was then. For every plant I considered squeezing into my tragically plant-less house, I asked, how old is it? The older it was, the more chance it had of surviving under my supervision. All of hers were ancient and she always responded with the same question, I don’t know, 15 or 20 years? And when I asked her what kind of care they required she was just like, you know, some sun, some water, whenever you remember. Well Anita. If you can do it with that attitude, surly I can too?…..?…?

I carefully selected an ancient hoya covered in a thick layer of dusty cigarette grease (I named him Brian) and a wild parlor palm in soil like gravel (Anita). Then she guilted me into taking an Amaryllis bulb her son had just given her with the asterisk, I think I planted it too early, and inside I’m thinking, what the fuck does that mean Anita, it’s a plant (so much to learn), while at the same time adopting this overwhelming, I WILL PROTECT THIS AS IF ITS MY OWN CHILD mindset, and sure enough. That’s the one I had no business being around. We became Facebook friends just for this plant. She wanted to see the color of the flower. I waited a long time for that flower. Anita’s still waiting.

But Anita the Parlor Palm, oh she’s a beaut. One of those I lovingly gaze at for uncomfortably too long, stare forever at how light bounces off the wispy leaves before wondering what it was I was supposed to be doing. And every year I bring Brian The Hoya out to summer on my front porch, soak up the sights and sounds and smells, I’m convinced plants can do it all. It flowered for me for the first time last summer, which I shared with every passerby who happened to pass by while I was out admiring, and to my delight, the street people displayed matching levels of excitement. Plant people are the best. Earlier this year, Brian took on a bunch of mealy bugs which, as per my procrastinating ways, I let become really fluffy balls of cotton before I decided to address it, and now I’m on a rescue mission, painstakingly wiping every surface of every 20 year old leaf with a Q-tip drenched in Emily’s neem oil. 

Who even am I. 

Anyway. In that tiny window after Brian and Anita sold and the new ones moved in, I thought it fitting to steal this weird greek-like stone head I had never seen outside their house before. I choose to believe they set several things out there for me to see in a little curated backyard collection in the corner of their yard closest to me, just a coupla weirdos silently communicating, and yes I moved several over to my tiny plot in homage. Brian introduced me to porch pirates after all, it just felt right to become a backyard burglar. 

I unexpectedly ran into Brian recently at the neighborhood gas station. He looks and sounds exactly like Steve Buscemi in his Armageddon days, hard not to do a double take. He’s like, Tosha? And I was like, Brian? Turns out, they moved back from the east coast, we exchanged basic pleasantries and our conversation ended with the generic good to see you, but truer words have yet to be spoken. It was really good to see him. And that’s the moment I realized how much I missed my neighbors, though our total conversations over the years might not even or ever reach double digits.

So this one’s for Brian & Anita, who will most definitely never read this. Thanks for the confidence boost Anita, I’m utterly dismayed Past Tosha didn’t jump at the chance to hoard every single one of your porch plants, and I’m only slightly sorry I killed your Christmas bulb, that was a lot of pressure, but something tells me you understand. I’m glad I don’t have to carry that secret around anymore, guess you were right, you planted it too early. No other possible explanation. And Brian, as per usual, the pleasure was all mine. 

All that to say, Happy May. Also known as the month you bring all your plants outside in efforts to revive them long enough to survive another winter, fill your house with a bunch more plants because it feels so empty, and when autumn rolls around you’ll say aloud to nobody, what do I do with all these plants? But you always find room because turns out, Anita speaks truth, right down to the oh honey.

You can never have too many plants.

Damn I miss that ukulele.

*Only one of two in the country, the other being Seattle, our little known outside of the midwest claim to fame.