Suburbia, Oregon, May 7, 2019, 9:13 AM. The neighbor lady refers to our neighborhood as an oasis, amid the cacophony and activity that permeates our suburb. I hear passenger jets roar, canines barking, screeching tires, slamming car doors and trunks, screaming youth, racing motorcycles, police sirens, fire truck sirens, single-engine planes, ambulance sirens, hurried FedEx and UPS trucks, jackhammers, road traffic, car alarms, trains, yelling voices, and two kinds of birds. The oasis is under siege by noise pollution, and it’s escalating beyond my tolerance. I love my ranch house, my home, my outpost, but the noise and activity of this oasis in suburbia grinds at my nerves. The majority of houses on the street—too short, so it’s called ‘Place’—remain empty during the day as the occupants work. I’m retired, I hear the noise of the day, I desire (deserve) peace and tranquility for my retirement. The oasis is transforming me into a grumpy old man, which I loathe to become, but seems like a reality if the damn racket out there doesn’t cease.
Noise pollution affects my health and well-being, and science backs up my claim. I am being damaged, and I ought to sue the responsible party, but whom? Should I defend myself, instead? I could wear noise-canceling headphones all day, or leave home for the mountains or the coast, returning home to the sounds of the oasis awaiting me at night. Noise pollution ebbs as the hour nudges against midnight, absented sounds include the speeding FedEx and UPS trucks, jackhammers, and two kinds of birds, but the remaining sources of noise I cited continue to fill the air to augment the added, but occasional, gun shots and explosions, presenting a dramatic effect to a peaceful nights sleep.
My time to bug out cometh. Roger that, and out!