BYRON DE ARAKAL -- Between the Lines

Before you begin, a warning: You must read silently lest your

neighbors complain that they can hear your lips moving. There’ll be no

laughing, no loudly calling the columnist a boob when you disagree. You

may whisper faint praise, however. I’ll take the heat if the old crank

next door yells over the fence to keep it down. Other than that, just

hold your thoughts to yourself and we’ll get through this without

disturbing the peace.

Now then, while driving up Gibraltar Street in Costa Mesa the other

morning, the thought occurred that, the way things are going, the modest

homes lined up all neatly on the east side of the street soon may be the

priciest real estate in town. And not because these are sprawling estates

lining the emerald fairways of the Mesa Verde Country Club. They aren’t,

and they don’t.

Rather, they’re modest little bungalows built around the time of John

F. Kennedy. But more to the point, the backyards of about a dozen or so

of these homes share a fence with the most peaceful neighbors in all of

Costa Mesa: the dearly departed residents of Harbor Lawn Mount Olive

cemetery.

Not to be flippant, but the people to whom this place is home sleep

all the time. There’s never a raucous party. No stereos run amok. There

are no tailgate parties or outdoor games, not even the annoyance of

children loudly laughing while at play. The decibels of life and the

living just aren’t happening here.

It’s a perfect neighborhood, really, for the growing and rather

cantankerous assortment of Newport-Mesa residents who have been griping

about the increasingly noisy neighborhoods where they live.

Take the West Newport property owners who live near the oceanfront

party pad of Dennis Rodman, for instance. They’d love it here. I mean,

when’s the last time a helicopter landed in a cemetery or a beer bash was

held next to a mausoleum? Where they are now, in Rodman’s neighborhood,

they can’t open a window to the breezes without the annoying rumble of

crashing waves spilling into the house. But here, on the quaint avenue of

Gibraltar, they can. It’s a really quiet place.

These are the perfect homes and the perfect neighborhood, I think,

too, for the good folks across the street from that inhospitable noise

factory otherwise recognized as the Lighthouse Community Church.

If you followed the last Costa Mesa City Council meeting, you know who

these people in search of peace are. They assembled en masse in the

council chambers to bemoan the disintegration of their neighborhood at

the hands of laughing and frolicking children who attend Kline School on

the church’s property. It’s intolerable, they protested, that their homes

are often filled with the sounds of the faithful as they share food and

laughter and song.

Poor Ruby Wilbur, a Magnolia Avenue resident, spends more time in her

living room, she told a mostly sympathetic council, taking readings from

her decibel meter instead of assisting her children with their homework.

The church has simply become too big, others said, to be compatible

with the rest of the community. There’s all those kids playing and

whooping it up after the sun goes down, not to mention those unruly

tailgate parties, bakes sales and youth carwashes. I guess I can see that

the neighborhood is falling apart.

Over on Gibraltar, it isn’t. It’s nice and quiet. Especially at night.

Occasionally, you might catch the noise of a backhoe breaking the peace.

But don’t worry. It’s just another quiet neighbor moving in.

Let’s end the tongue in cheek, shall we?

My family is blessed to live in a neighborhood where there is life.

Our neighbors behind us recently welcomed a newborninto their family. On

some mornings, and at times in the evening, the little tot cuts loose

with a holler that reminds me, wistfully, of those precious moments when

my kids were new and pink and loud. And it is a wonderful sound.

On warm weekends, our neighbors to one side welcome their friends and

their children for an afternoon romp in the pool with much laughter and

squealing and rounds of Marco Polo. More sounds of life.

And often I’ve winced in anticipation of complaints from my neighbors

during the countless hours my oldest son hammers out riffs and fills on

his drums, or when his band shakes the walls of our garage with amplified

guitar licks and crashing cymbals. But instead folks on an afternoon walk

stop and listen in. “He’s really good,” some say. Others offer: “It’s

nice you support his music.”

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a little peace and quiet as much as the

next guy. But it nevertheless occurs to me that our ride on this rock is

altogether short, too short to be complaining about the sounds of life.

Too short to be hiding behind walls that grow ever higher. And too short,

certainly, to be adding to the din by grousing about it.

But if you don’t agree, there’s always Gibraltar Street. Over there

it’s really quiet.

Deathly so.

* BYRON DE ARAKAL is a writer and communications consultant. He lives

in Costa Mesa. His column runs Wednesdays. Readers may reach him with

news tips and comments via e-mail at byronwriter@msn.com.