“Neighbourhood Watch: Unhinged Edition” by Catherine Brazeau

Notes from the Paranoid Suburbs 

She watched us. Every day, she’d peer through her drapes on self-assigned surveillance duty, eyes fixed on us—a bubble-gum battalion of pre-teen girls on banana-seat bikes with the audacity to exist within her line of sight. We were harmless, mostly. But in her mind, we were plotting something against her.

She wrote letters to my mother, which she mailed, despite living next door. Passive-aggression always lands better with postage. Each one “a warning” to “control your daughter and her friends”.

To be fair, we did once lob clumps of mud over the fence and into her swimming pool. We were eleven, maybe twelve: the age of wonder and small cruelties fuelled by straws of powdered candy, our beloved Pixy Stix.

But those letters.

More than 50 years later, I’m reading them again. The pages are yellowed and smell faintly of hairspray. Yes, AquaNet, still holding the past firmly in place. Some of her letters stretched five and six pages long—an Olympic feat of grievance-writing that revealed a disturbing paranoia.

She wasn’t okay. She probably never was. Her backward cursive slants hard, like it’s fighting against the wind of its undoing. Each letter grew more unhinged, more hyperbolic. 

Our laughter was transformed into us running up to her car and screaming accusations. Her husband, she wrote, “was afraid to come home from work,”  presumably because of our menacing hopscotch.

“I’m listening and watching. I hear everything they say,” she wrote. “I’m not going to sit quietly by while your bitch of a daughter and her friends have fun at my expense.”

Today, she’d probably have motion detectors, a Ring cam, and maybe even a GoFundMe called Help Me Rid the Neighbourhood of These Children.

She thought we were a threat, but really, we were just girls on bikes practicing being alive, and that’s always going to sound too loud for somebody. I suppose we could’ve been nicer. But then again, she could’ve just closed her curtains.

I sometimes wonder what it cost her to feel that hunted, that sure the neighbourhood children were plotting her downfall. Imagine believing that our laughter was a weapon aimed squarely at her. It’s one thing to be paranoid—it’s another to think the enemy is fun itself.

So, what do you do with a neighbour like that?

Well, my mother didn’t reply with a ransom-style letter made from cut-out magazine clippings. Nor did she bake cookies as a peace offering. Our neighbour wouldn't have eaten them anyway—she’d have suspected poison, of course.

Instead, my mom insisted: You stay visible. You ride faster. You laugh louder. You keep showing up with bikes and bubble gum. You let her know—we’re not going anywhere. You let her know—we’re watching, too.

So, we kept riding, kept laughing, and we learned something. Joy is defiant. And slightly scandalous.

***

Catherine Brazeau is a retired designer and brand consultant who enjoys cooking, running, and exploring creativity through writing. Most of all, she delights in spending time with her four grandchildren, whom she calls the greatest antidote to ageism. “My grandkids don’t ignore me yet,” she jokes.

She lives in Pelham with her husband of 40+ years, who is also an artist. An occasional columnist for PelhamToday.ca, her essays also appear on The Next Iteration on Substack.

For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

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“Everywhere’s a starting place” by Catherine Brazeau

It’s always a joy to meet other people who are doing the thing I’m still learning to do. It’s also intimidating as I think about my own feeble attempts at writing. It’s hard not to feel like an imposter, especially when your inner voice steps in to remind you that you haven’t taken enough writing classes or spent enough time editing.

Even though I’m more practiced than I was a few years ago, that doesn’t get rid of my doubts or my insecurities.

“It’s our last class and I have nothing to share,” says my inner voice.

Then God says, “Write about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Write about your inability to write anything worth sharing. Let’s see what happens.”

And so, I begin. I take a deep breath and start writing something that’s sort of coherent but mostly about what I’m wallowing in and it’s a miserable slog and it’s sounding very self-indulgent and incredibly boring to anyone who isn’t me. Nobody’s here for a front row seat for my navel gazing!

I get so far along and suddenly I’m fed up with it. I’m fed up with my lack of talent. I’m fed up with winter. I start to question why I’m showing up here at all.

But then, little bits of words show up; sentences begin to form. It’s a bit limp and there’s blood. Like a cat bringing a dead mouse to the door. A sacramental offering to the gods of thoughts and words?

Maybe I have something to share after all! I feel my pleasure rising like a dopamine hit after a run. Suddenly, I am here. I have left there behind. The blank page shifts from intimidation to invitation.

And the great mystery begins again.

*** 

Catherine Brazeau is a retired designer and brand consultant who enjoys cooking, running, and exploring creativity through writing. Most of all, she delights in spending time with her four grandchildren, whom she calls the greatest antidote to ageism. “My grandkids don’t ignore me yet,” she jokes. She lives in Pelham with her husband of 40 years—also an artist. You can read more of her musings at The Next Iteration, on Substack here. 

Read more short pieces about reading and writing here (and scroll down). Read other short stories, essays, and reviews by your fellow writers here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.