Radioactive Ridge

Keep that bed clean, Lucy.

This week we’ve been installing a solar system out at Ridge, which is like going upstate without having to cross any bridges. It’s scary quiet out there, we saw more wild turkeys than cars passing by today. There are woodsy pieces of property you just don’t see across the rest of Long Island’s thoroughly parceled out and diced up landscape. You can hear horses whinnying off in the distance, and the homeowner, Gay, puts out a sack full of apples to feed the deer every night. Her neighbors don’t approve of the practice, but, as Gay put it, “The deer don’t eat my shrubs.”

Part of why this neighborhood remains so rustic is its proximity to Brookhaven National Lab. I’m not sure exactly what, if any, dangerous activity goes on at BNL, but after doing a few jobs there I’ve heard enough anecdotes to keep me from house hunting in the area myself, turkeys or no turkeys. There is the legend of the piece of radioactive material put in a field just for semi-scientific shits and giggles, which proceeded to eradicate every living thing in a quarter-mile radius, a perfect circle of death. I’ve heard claims that the breast cancer rate in the vicinity is the highest of anywhere on Long Island, which has a nasty reputation for high breast cancer rates in its own right. Who can really predict the consequences of having a particle accelerator, visible from space, just beyond your backyard? On the bright side, a past solar client in the neighborhood was convinced that whatever was cooking over at the lab was responsible for the prolific production of his tomato plants.

Gay, who is, in fact, quite pleasant and gay, seems content to enjoy the wildlife and not worry about half-lifes. She even announced today that she was headed off to the tanning salon, even though it was July 13th and her skin (she is in her fifties and already too tan) could use a vacation, perhaps an Alaskan cruise.

Gay is especially gay now that the solar panels are finally here. She keeps cooing in her singsong Southern sunshiny voice that they’re “Purrr-dee”, which is great because a happy customer means a happy me. She has been a little too excited from the getgo for my taste – it means we can only disappoint her – and I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, like when her husband finally comes home from Bike Week and says, “What the f--- is this abomination? Tear it down! Now!”

Gay is a talker. With very little prompting I have learned a great deal about her life, including the tragic tale of her recently-deceased, 15-year-old Rottweiler whose bedding needed to be changed and washed 5-6 times a day because he was incontinent, poor thing. (I guess this tale was apropos of her high electric bill?) I smiled politely and did not tell her that my dear mutt Lucy, who is a healthy 3+ years, would be scheduled for a one-way trip to the vet if I had to wash her bedding more than 3 times in any given month. Of course, I have babies to deal with and she does not, that wasn’t in the cards for her. But Gay does have quite a tan, a huge backyard, some "purdee" solar panles, 4 mottled pound dogs, 5 cats and her very own growing herd of glowing deer.