I was rocking my yard yesterday, and by that I don’t mean I was head-banging and playing air guitar, although to say I’ve never done that would be a lie. I was unloading and spreading a truckload of DG rock onto my lawn to keep the dust down and to generally beautify my property. The rock is organic, and gives my lawn the appearance of a baseball infield. I work in my yard often with all sorts of tools, wearing gloves and bandanna. As I was dumping my umpteenth wheelbarrow of rock, a ratty pickup pulled up across the street. In order to understand this blog, the reader must conjure a mental image of “those neighbors.” Yes, the neighbors who have been repeatedly cited for a car on blocks, trash in the yard, dogs at large, children on the loose, yelling at all hours, and general community blight. These neighbors, oblivious as they are to their neighborhood, pay next to nothing for their Section 8 housing. In fact, the U.S. government foots the bill for their housing, food, and transportation. They sleep well into the day, and seem to do most of their business on the street. More occupants live in the house than can be reasonably counted.

Back to my yard rocking. The family patriarch, an aging Mexican hippie who has never worked in the six years I’ve owned my house, pulled up in front, waiting for god knows what. Much waiting in cars is done in front of that house. I looked up and caught him staring at me, again no surprise as leering, too, seems a favorite pastime among those neighbors. “You work too hard,” he said with a stupid smile. I suppose I should have smiled back and yucked it up at his witty remark.

“No, I work just right,” I said, pointedly staring at his trash-strewn yard and returning to my job.

At what point did working become shameful? The neighbors low-class norms include identifying with a culture of helping themselves to the feed trough of life without contributing to its contents. I realize that my Midwestern roots are showing. I was raised in an area where hard work was a way of life, both honorable and rewarding in and of itself. We got up early and happily went about our days, “slacking” an unheard of concept. In fact, the one or two families who bred poverty and crime as reliably as a barn cat throws litters were so vilified that the bloodline thankfully ended when the progeny became unmarriageable.

Such is not the case these days. SNAP cards are refilled monthly, and recipients are taught by an expensive government media campaign there should be no shame in receiving welfare. They compete to find ways to cheat the system until work like rocking one’s yard is a shameful endeavor for those too foolish to take advantage of the giveaways. Far from taking pride in honest work, folks like my neighbors actually ridicule it. Yes, the culture of welfare dependence is more than alive and well; it’s bloated and obese like the leering, lazy neighbor watching me rock my yard.