Before sunrise, at approximately 5:55 AM, through the blackness of night, came sounds of power tools from a home construction site.
It seemed out-of-place. A late-model, dark-colored GMC or Chevrolet pickup was parked at an angle. Air ratchets, and hammering, broke the silence.
Was it the construction crew at that early hour? Or, someone with nefarious purposes in mind? Maybe, this was legitimate?
Couldn’t help but wonder. Wasn’t going to approach whomever it was. Made a mental note, in case there were further developments. A little after six, the truck left.
Thank you. I will–after mowing and trimming the lawn. By then, my energy will have been spent.
The job’s done–three hours later. Dehydrated, on the verge of heat exhaustion. My fingers are cramping up as I write this. I’m giving myself the rest of the day off.
After mowing the yard in one hundred and nine degree heat index today, I’m still a little peaked. I took breaks to drink water, but after three hours, it wore me down.
My gas powered trimmer and push mower, didn’t like the heat either, and were balky–sort of like I felt.
Relief came mid-afternoon with booming thunderstorms. I was finished by then. Salty snacks and plenty of water helped.
Did familiarity breed contempt? The same people did the same things, day after day, year after year. After eleven years, was it time to pack up and move on? Questions asked many times–especially in times of stress.
Trails of cigarette butts could be followed to either of two houses. A former pro-athlete, overestimated his appearance in a Speedo, while doing yard work. One neighbor poached deer from a tree-stand in his backyard. Another set off backyard fireworks all too frequently.
A sweet old lady down the street took in feral cats. It was rumored, she was too familiar with the bottle; once came home inebriated; wandered into a neighbor’s house; fell down, broke a hip. The elderly couple in the first house never came out in the light of day. Were they, perhaps, vampires?
Modern Suburban Fables–an ongoing saga of dysfunctional behavior, ends with episode #9. Running away from ones’ vexations, was not only foolish, but also, impossible. I’m stuck with the possibility of being the only sane [or most boring] person on Cuckoo Street.
The other possibility–these occurrences weren’t that unusual. With the exception being, the day a hot air balloon landed in a backyard, across the street; all neighborhoods, were dysfunctional to some degree. Rumors were partial truths, told to enhance status of the revealer.
I’m not going anywhere. The morning and evening parade of minivans will continue without me.
The verbose are only slightly less tragic than the morose.
Mr. Finch fancied himself
A handsome man
Even though, he was
Mrs. Finch had gone away
Gone away to work
Mr. Finch couldn’t wait
Mr. Finch was such a jerk
That all changed the day
Mrs. Finch came home early
Mrs. Finch didn’t find it funny
Took Mr. Finch for all his money
When Mr. Finch was caught
With some silly wench
He’d met at the DMV
SUV’s–Sedans on steroids
Set sail every day
Spun out from the cul-de-sac
At sharply nine o’clock
Those that got in their way
When they were late
Suffered a terrible fate
In vacant streets
Where green grass grew
Never came true
In a few years
Recognize this place
Eternal optimists always knew