Saturday and Sunday we had two days of sunshine in a row and the entire town shot outdoors to cope with the mess in our yards. Loads of tree branches had come down in the snowstorm 10 days prior and had lingered there while we waited for the foot of snow to melt.
Most of the snow had melted by Saturday and the time was nigh.
There is no love lost between me and the wife half of the family to my immediate west. They moved here from New York in 2011, replacing a neighbor whom I loved, and they’ve never matched up to the former owner. I like the kids, I exchange pleasantries with the husband, I am charmed by their chickens, and I don’t mind their aggressive barking dog. But the housewife with the ever-changing hair color is never friendly (and once called the town inspector on me), so I am an icy cold polite. On Saturday, her husband was in the backyard with a gutter cleaning crew while I was collecting branches and moving tree limbs out of the yard and into the driveway. We exchanged pleasantries over the fence and spoke about the storm and weather, as neighbors do. We compared notes on tree damage and basement sump pumps. Then he mentioned that the family intended to sell their house and move to Tennessee. I mentioned that I had lived there some years ago and had always loved the place; I wished them good luck.
Once inside my house, I shared the news with T, who knows how I feel about the wife. We made some jokes about New Yorkers in Tennessee and then let the matter drop. The next day, my neighbor was once again in the yard, this time lighting a fire in his fire pit in order to burn branches and dry leaves. This is both distinctly illegal and unwise, given the close proximity of the fire to both my house and his, but there is no accounting for common sense. As the smoke poured into my yard and he pushed leaves to the fire with his leaf blower, T and I shook our heads.
Then, with the quiet sarcasm that I love so damned much, T offered, “He’s going to make a fine hillbilly.”
Internet, she’s mine.
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