We had some new neighbors move in last week, a couple that
appears to be about our age. I’ve met them both and they seem like perfectly
nice people, but I’m going to reserve judgment because they could turn out to
be something terrifying, like serial killers or swingers or Tennessee fans.
They were wearing shoes and I didn’t need Honey Boo Boo-type subtitles to
understand them when they talked, so I can probably eliminate the Tennessee
angle.
It should be a nice change, because that house has been a
nightmare next door for several years. First there was a couple that apparently
suffered from agoraphobia, and neglected the front lawn until it became nothing
but weeds and rocks. There’s more grass in Willie Nelson’s pocket than there is
in that yard. After they moved out they started renting the house to a
succession of rednecks who would move in, live for a while, and then escape
under the cover of darkness.
There are some nice neighbors around me, on the other side
and across the street, and although I like them and talk to them frequently, I
couldn’t tell you any of their last names at gunpoint. These new folks have
already worked on the lawn and spread pine straw and pressure-washed the house,
so I think we might get along. But while it is nice to have neighbors who view
their front yard as something other than a place to park their cars, I realize
I’m going to have to adjust my behaviors.
For example, in the warmer months, I have been known to walk
outside in only my boxer shorts after dark to get something out of the car or
throw something in the trash can. My wife really wishes I wouldn’t do this –
not because she’s afraid someone will see me half-naked, but because she
doesn’t want people to know I wear Sponge-Bob Squarepants underwear.
I may also have to curtail my anti-squirrel crusade in the
back yard. I like to sit out back on the patio when I’m grilling something,
drink a nice cold beverage, and shoot at these despicable varmints with a .BB
gun. It’s not powerful enough to do them any harm, but it is fun to watch them
jump up in the air in surprise when I score a direct hit. Anyway, I can imagine
how this will probably look to the neighbors.
Then there is my annual late winter-early spring backyard
fire, which is also harmless and quite probably illegal. I basically gather all of the sticks and
limbs and leaves that have accumulated over the past year and put them in a
pile, and then I pull up a nice lawn chair, get some lighter fluid and matches,
and let the fun begin.
The highlight always comes when I toss the Christmas tree on
top. Let me tell you, a Leyland Cypress that’s been lying in the yard, drying
out for three months, lights up like a Saturn rocket when it’s tossed into the
flames. The last time I did it, a legion of warriors from Gondor rode up and
offered to help me in battle (that one was just for you Lord of the Rings fans).
I think I’m going to go ahead and have my fire this year and
just see what happens. I may get some marshmallows and graham crackers and
Hershey bars and keep them on hand, so if the cops show up I can say I was just
making S’mores for me and Lucky.
I guess I’ll try to act decent for a while and not scare
these poor people away. Maybe at some point, I’ll ever learn their last names.
