Moving By Jeannette Gartner
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ho knew that moving to a bigger house closer to a school would be a traumatic experience? It’s a well-kept secret that living on “The Hill” entailed certain OBLIGATIONS. There should be a mandatory requirement to take and pass a social training class for anyone planning such a move. In fact, the whole family should have to take this class, kids, parents, and even pets. There are certain things one can get away with in a former neighborhood which are Not Allowed on “The Hill.” Weeds. I have always prided myself on my tolerance of weeds. Since I don’t have a green thumb, it is hard for me to grow anything. So if a weed wants to take up residence in my yard, I have always encouraged it to do so. I figure at least it’s green. But no more. Weeds are Not Allowed. Old cars. Now, we are not the kind of people to
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have cars sitting around on blocks in the yard – at least not indefinitely. But in this neighborhood, an old car is one over two years old or with a dent in it. And, never, ever is one allowed to have a truck parked in front of one’s house except for deliveries of new furniture, etc. Somewhere along the line, I failed in the social graces department. Conversing with a stranger, unless we both happen to be cowering under the table during an earthquake, has always been difficult for me. All the intelligent questions and clever witticisms I come up with at home desert me around strangers. At a symphony orchestra reception, I told one of the musicians he played “real good” and another that her “baby flute” was darling. Cocktail parties. Frankly I’d rather be home with a very bad book than go to a cocktail party. In fact, I hate them so much I’d even rather be home with the kids. First of all, I don’t drink more than one or two glasses of wine on any social occasion and my constant refusal of alcohol beverages seems to be an affront to the host. I’m