The single word, Elmwood, was chiseled in bold letters over the huge pair of stone framed, wrought iron gates, and below it in cheery script read “For Those Who Have a Lust for Life,” leaving in doubt if it was a wise choice for those who were still iffy about lust, or life, or living.
The shiny, scurring golf carts and lack of happy, bouncing children, marked Elmwood as an over 55 community. Way over.
The place was gigantic, stretching from the main highway over to Boulder Lake. There were no boulders on or around the lake and no Elms in Elmwood, but to those with a lust for life it didn’t matter.
The place was spic and span, no discarded paper and beer cans in the gutters, no cars on jacks, or front yards brimming with stone deer, no chartreuse front doors, and certainly no loud music. Lust for Life was being carefully controlled.
Largely this atmosphere of sterility was the responsibility of the ARB, the Architectural Review Board, which met monthly in a well-appointed back room in the Community Recreation Center. The room overlooked the golf course, with coffee and sweet rolls catered.
Sally Francis Tunner, often called The Wicked Witch of the Waist, due to bulk and attitude, called the meeting of the Elmwood Homeowners Architectural Review Board to order. Some spelled it Waste.
The other members of the board sat quietly, although Sammy ‘the drummer’ Samson did his usual trick of thumping his #2 yellow pencil’s eraser on the table.
Sally Francis chewed her bottom lip, but didn’t say anything. The drummer was often an ally. By his no vote, the measure to paint the bottom of the swimming pool pink failed; likewise the movement to restrict the height of street signs to two feet.
Mildred Perkins, a sweet faced ninny, usually said little and today was no exception. At the last meeting, she’d boldly broken silence to read one of her poems.
My heart lives within your smile
And I would walk a country mile
Because I really like your style.
This was greeted by looks of surprise and vengeful thoughts involving gunfire.
“Today’s agenda includes a request to install an outdoor toilet, another to keep a goat as a pet, a third to introduce nickel plated name plates to mail boxes, and a final request to ban nude swimming at the Elmwood Community Pool.
The final item was probably for aesthetics rather than decorum. To date there had been no complaints or the odd nude scampering about for that matter. The men glanced at each other, wondering if they’d missed anything. The idea of younger women frolicking and splashing, while showing the occasional matched set of nipples had it’s appeal, but this was a community, with the average age closer to grave than graduation.
“So, let us begin at the beginning,” Sally Francis said, which made one wonder if she spoke of the agenda, or a full English breakfast, or a midnight snack.
Quendle Grimby, gray haired and glasses, with a neck the size of the average woman’s wrist, was the first to decipher the code. “Why does anyone want to put in an outhouse?” His Adam’s apple bobbed in approval.
Charlene Piffer answered immediately. “They’re putting on a new roof at 1404 Beatle Pond Road.”
Questions and comments flew like leaves in a jolly windstorm.
“A new roof? I don’t believe that was on any agenda.”
“I hope they know we nixed the speckled tangerine shingles!”
“Can’t they still use the indoor plumbing?”
“Ridiculous!”
“How big is the outhouse?”
If Sally Francis had a gavel she would have happily hammered a nail, but instead she used her ample lungs. “I suggest we table this until we get some ...”
Sammy cut in, as he had a habit of doing. “NO outhouse! I think that’s pretty clear.”
“Second item, “ roared Sally Francis, expressing her insistence that she not be interrupted.
Quendle meanwhile had dozed off and so had his Adams apple. Sammy stabbed him in the side with his pencil, making Quindle so very glad he’d worn Depends.
“Keeping a goat as a pet,” Sally Francis said.
Dick Heather, a stumpy, serious, bald man with twilight years only a distant memory and lights out in the offing, made his presence known. “Goats are not one of the pets in the covenant. That’s pretty clear. If this were the Army…”
“If this were the Army you’d have been in front of firing squad ages ago for inciting ignorance and cowardice in the face of logic.” The speaker was Dolly Madison, her real name, and a butt of jokes until the other board members had come to know and fear her. Dolly had a quick wit, an eager mind, and called no one at the table a friend. Oh, she had plenty of friends, but none so rude as to be elected, and waste her time.
“The goat is a service animal, sanctioned by the state,” Dolly said. “Also, goats and sheep eat grass, and prevent greenhouse gases, unlike fossil fueled lawn mowers. Our county protects goat and sheep ownership as an environmental issue.”
“Well F…..,” Sammy began, but thought better of it.
Dick Heather slammed his fist down, reawakening Quendle, who sped off to the men’s room. Depends can only take so much abuse.
“NICKEL PLATTED NAME PLATES,” Sally Francis broke in, sending shock waves.
“Don’t care,” Sammy said. “Nickel plated, dime plated, quarter plated…all the same to me.”
“Everyone in agreement in not restricting the type of nameplates?”
Hands went up, waved briefly and came back down.
“How about nude swimming?” Sally Francis tried to present it without a growl.”
Dick Heather said, “I suppose the EPA…”
“It’s a state issue and a community issue,” Dolly Madison said. “The state doesn’t allow nudity on its beaches, but private swimming pools are another matter.”
Voices, loud and tangled brought the issue to a head, with some male members in favor of the baring of love mounds, while others were silenced by thoughts of their wives. Female members pictured flaccid, wrinkled penises.
The naked body, sacred as it was, had no place in the Elmwood community swimming pool. Who the hell brought this up in the first place? Dolly knew, but wasn’t saying.
The next day, Dolly sent an email to Sally Francis. “In regard to the outdoor toilet, it’s a port-a-potty for the workmen, paid for by the roofing company and only needs to remain for two more days.”
Mildred Perkins’ poem was published in the weekly Neighborhood Shout Out. She became known as the Emily Dickenson of Elmwood, although few had read her poems. Those that had remained silent.
The agenda for the next meeting included having gate guards armed with pepper spray, requiring leashes on visiting grandchildren, and a request to bury a dog in his neighbor’s front yard “because she killed him.”
Meanwhile, word had gotten out about the goat. Now three other neighbors had them. A fourth neighbor inquired about the possibility of converting a port-a-potty into a small goat cheese factory. He’d seen one just down the street.
Dolly typed out an approval for the goat cheese project and the dog burial, and dropped them in the neighbors’ mailboxes. She was tired of working with idiots anyway.
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