Into the Light

Editor’s Note: Single women have a clear concern about personal security. And there are good neighbors, anonymous neighbors, and bad neighbors. Marlene Blessing has the latter.

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It all started in a semi-joking way. My next-door neighbor, Michael (whose last name I don’t know and with whom no words are usually exchanged), commented on the two bright lights I installed above my back deck. I was really pleased with these light fixtures, so elegant and modern and featuring stylish LED lights, which illuminated my huge back deck perfectly. “You’re lighting up the whole golf course,” he smirked. Our houses border a pastoral golf course populated by more deer than golfers. “Really?” I countered. “Now that I live alone, they make me feel safe when I turn them on at night.”

And here’s where the brief conversation took a turn. He said I needn’t use those lights to fend off potential home invaders. After all, he assured me, we live on a peaceful island, where cars can safely sit unlocked in driveways and houses will never be burgled. Coming from a burly man, this didn’t feel reassuring, especially since he had no awareness of how a single woman maintains her safety. I bristled, but held my tongue, thinking that he really had no business telling me what was worth my doing. Then I couldn’t help asking why he seemed concerned. He told me he was a stargazer and needed the sky to be as dark as possible. Apparently, my downward-facing, lidded lights lit up his sky.

Hmmmm, I thought. The bulbs are intentionally bright for protection. But maybe I needed to keep the peace by leaving the lights off for him to pursue his passion. He seemed lonely. After all, his young wife seemed to have left him. And so I did. Soon, there was a bottle of wine delivered to my porch, a sign that the ceasefire worked and we could go back to ignoring one another.

It’s been a year now that I’ve maintained this darkness. When a friend came for dinner recently, I turned on the lights to show him how ridiculously big (700+ square feet) my deck is. I mentioned that I didn’t normally turn the lights on at night per my neighbor’s concerns. He stood on the deck with me, gazing out over the course, looking up at winter’s night sky, then over at my neighbor’s backyard. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “These lights don’t shine any farther than your deck.” I drew back and thought about what he had just proclaimed. Maybe I didn’t need to bend to darkness after all.

It’s never a great thing to alienate a neighbor. And on the small Northwest island where I live, we all try to subscribe to the “Live and let live” mantra. But I started to question whether Michael’s stargazing hobby should rule out the lighting that gave me a greater sense of security. I knew I couldn’t talk about this with him. I’d already done that last year. And it’s not like we signed a mutual pact—although the bottle of wine was a nice gesture. But I began to add things up. The wine had already bought him a year of darkness. I figured it was now time for me to reclaim the light.

After about a week of nighttime lighting on my deck, I found a semiofficial-looking printout stuck in my door. It addressed me as “Dear Neighbor” and went on to describe the various ways in which those of us who live in Island County should restrict our outdoor lighting for our neighbors’ sakes. It also highlighted various items, none of which should apply to me, I thought, other than perhaps reducing the wattage of my lightbulbs. There was no signature or naming on the printout. It was anonymous. But it did make me feel that I should consider buying 60-watt lightbulbs to replace the 100-watt bulbs on my deck. As for my front porch lights and garage lights, no compromise. I need the brightest bulbs to illuminate my way into the house at night on a street without the benefit of city streetlights.

On several nights, I walked out onto my deck to check whether the lights streamed past my deck. Nope. All good. But here’s where things took another turn. I soon found another copy of the flyer that had originally been placed in my front door under my car’s windshield wipers. And later that day, I found another stuffed in my mailbox. I watch a lot of TV mystery series, so I’m used to puzzling crime who-did-its. My number-one suspect: my neighbor. Who else would care? The deer, the eagles, the crows, the squirrels and rabbits?

Like a good detective, I did some checking. No one lives in the house on the other side of me, and only an older couple live directly across the street from me. I knocked on their door, and they invited me in to interrupt their day of popcorn and television. I showed them the document that had become a triple threat for me and asked if they had received the same notice. When they said no, I explained what happened and shared my suspicion. Sweet Marilyn rose from her recliner and said she’d go to our neighbor’s house with me right now and double the indignation.

That really wasn’t necessary, I told her. I just wanted to confirm my suspicions. Plus, I had just received my next-day Amazon order of 60-watt bulbs to replace the bright offenders. Last night, as I binged a few murder mysteries that took place in small, rural communities like mine, I felt safer. The new deck lighting was dimmer, but bright enough. Somehow, though, I couldn’t shake some of the lingering resentment I felt. Peace Out, I advised myself. And Let It Be. Yet the fact that my need for safety had been trivialized and that I had received “anonymous” flyers pissed me off. Direct confrontations hardly lead to positive results, though. So I stewed a bit instead.

Maybe I should just stuff the three identical flyers in my neighbor’s mailbox, I thought. That way, if he’s not as guilty as I think he is, he’ll just assume it’s from some neighborhood crank. But if he did target me, he’ll know I’ve drawn a line not to cross. This was an unhappy situation. I don’t relish hostility. Especially not with a man whose house is next to mine.

Soon after I convinced myself to sit tight, my neighbor came to my door to complain directly. Just when I was chastising myself for caring about further action, he turned up the heat. After telling him I’d lowered the wattage, he claimed my lights had to be shielded on all sides. Really? This time, however, I vowed to continue to stay cool. After all, it wasn’t The War of the Roses. It was just a dispute about two outdoor lights between an angry stargazer and a single woman with the need to stay safe.

I admit, shutting the door on my neighbor at this point would have been the wisest course. But I was indignant that he hadn’t had the neighborly instincts (or the courage) to ask me nicely to do something about my lights and had instead chosen to bombard me with anonymous flyers. I told him that was f**ked up—to which he gathered up his bulky self and shouted angrily, “F**k you!” as he stormed off. This escalation felt threatening. Shortly afterward, I wrote a brief note that I stuck in his mailbox, explaining that both lights were a lower wattage now and that I would turn off the lights by 10 p.m. nightly. Case closed, neighbor avoided.

Postscript: My angry neighbor and I have reached détente. However, I have some sense of caution about living next to a guy who takes outdoor lighting wattage so seriously. The other day, a county official knocked on my door. Turns out, my neighbor had reported me as violating our Island County ordinance. As he inspected my deck lights, he started laughing. “You’re in complete compliance, Ma’am. Don’t know what the fuss was about, but I’d let the cops know if he bothers you again.” I’ll keep that suggestion in mind.

END

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