In Limbo Land

It’s an unusual place to be. In the market for a new home in another state, but, our present home has to sell first.

No doubt some of the neighbors were shocked, when the for sale sign appeared on the front lawn. Most of the neighbors are personable, with a couple that are difficult at times.

That’s the same in every neighborhood. Keeping the house spiffy for potential buyers is a challenge. At least when realtors bring visitors, we have a place to hang out in the interim.

Max the dog enjoys visiting the lady across the street and her dog Noah.. He sits at the end of the neighbor’s driveway, watching realtors and clients entering and leaving our house.  He probably wonders why strangers are in his house.

Headlines–You Heard It Here First

24 minutes on washer #6
Changed his name? Again?
Nationally ranked teams
Retained their places
Hot, humid, wouldn’t go away
Standing date for Sunday breakfast
Max continued his lazy ways
Wasn’t that what senior dogs were supposed to do?
Doggoned tourists–needed remedial driving school
Exchanged plant cuttings with a neighbor
Delicious grilled pork steaks for dinner

Summer Saga

Nobody’s in a hurry
To do anything
Moving slow, slower, slowest
Nothing much to say
You know the rest
Would take too much effort
What was left, but to nitpick?
About those that droned
On-and-on, in irritating
Monotones–in public places
On hand-held phones
About those that mowed lawns
Mid-afternoons–because
It was cooler that way in June
There were more issues I missed
None of which were reasons
To get my shorts in a twist

Highlights of the Week

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Write about something! What was I waiting for? A better story to come along? Something, was better than nothing.

Hurricane Harvey made landfall last evening. The storm continues to batter with pounding rain. Whether any of the outer bands reach here, remains to be seen. Hoping for the best.

And in other news, someone on my FB feed, posted a picture of their favorite brand of kosher dill pickles. That wasn’t fair. I happened to like kosher dills. Has anyone invented a way to share yummy things over the web? I think they should.

Do some people’s food preferences make you crazy?  Sally liked dill pickle spears, but didn’t like gherkins.  What was the difference?  It defied logic.  “Didn’t like gherkins?”  Stop jerkin’ me around!”

In response to questionable behavior, on the part of one of my neighbors, “They didn’t have the sense God gave a goose.” The infraction, I’ll leave it to your imagination–other than to say, it was related, to it being an extremely wet summer.

There’s another run-off election coming up next month.  Two candidates going head-to-head.  I don’t care for either of them.  That’s as far as I care to get into politics this morning.

I’m sitting here writing–nothing’s getting done. The house needed tidied up. The lawn needed mowed and trimmed. There was always next week.

What Do You Do?

At first I wanted revenge.  Spraying Roundup on something he held near and dear?  No, didn’t want to start a war.  Displaying tacky plastic flowers where my lilies formerly were?  Nobody in the neighborhood would get it.

My neighbor was a little too enthusiastic about spraying weed killer this spring.  He doesn’t yet know it, but his flowering crabapple tree is on the critical list–as well.  I doubt if he could tell a lily leaf from a blade of grass anyway.

This would make a good case for the Judge Judy show.  Out of three different types of lilies, only one was left.  These were on my property–there was no encroachment.  I was most disappointed that the ones, with three yellow, and three brown petals were gone.  These came from my daughter’s yard in Illinois.

Today was transplant day.  All surviving lilies were transplanted, far away from my neighbor, and his notorious spraying.  I’ve included a picture of how things looked two years ago.  The deep red and gold lilies were all that remained.  They’re, not in bloom, left of the yellow/brown lilies.

One Of the Good Guys

I’m still shocked, in disbelief, that a neighbor and good friend passed away last night.  He was within a year or two of my age.

Rick and I were retired communications workers–for the same company in adjoining states.  We could fall back on telling telephone “war” stories.  Rick always lent a helping hand when needed.

Because of Rick, I have buried telephone service to my workshop.  It’s an old-fashioned landline.  How else were my antique telephones going to work?  With ringers as loud as firehouse gongs, they’d refuse to operate on wireless–the very idea.

Every good thing that will be said, Rick deserves.  He was one of the good guys.  Me and the dogs will miss him.  We couldn’t pass by Rick’s house on walks without Max putting on the brakes.  Max loved to see Rick–go back to his workshop.  I know it was an interruption.  Rick refurbished golf carts.  Rick always found the time.

 

Can You Dig It?

“You have a small mouth,” Said the dental hygienist.  My sarcastic nature went to work.

“Maybe I missed my calling?  I should have joined the circus.”  Her comment was off-the-wall–or at the very least, tactless.

“Sorry, I’m just a mouth monitor–would you look at the size of that mouth!  Now, there’s a mouth I could work with.”  She didn’t say it–was she thinking it?

A neighbor, given to spontaneous bombastic bouts of unsolicited advice, had this to say about preventing my dogs from digging holes in the backyard.

“Well, you fill the hole up with water.  Then, grab the offending dog by the nose; stick the dog’s head and snout underwater, until he squirms and gasps for air.  Repeat, if necessary, and by gosh they’ll get the message or drown.  Either way–no more holes!”

“Thanks for the information, neighbor.  I’ll get back to you on that.”  There was no way in heck, I was going to do that.

Most holes were discovered after the fact.  When it was too late to yell at the offender.  Collecting dog excrement and depositing it in the hole before filling it was semi-successful.  The worst holes were under the privacy fence.

At this point, I don’t think the dogs wanted to escape–they were just curious about neighborhood activities.  And, I can dig that.

 

The Committee Has Spoken

A more loose-knit committee has heretofore never been seen.  Building a piece of furniture, with tools and volunteer craft persons 800 miles from the comfort of my workshop, is proving to be a challenge.  Not impossible, but quite unwieldy.

Yesterday afternoon, most of the committee members met in a informal backyard setting, around the swimming pool.  There were no disagreements.  However, most members were more concerned with what was for dinner–stuffed pork chops.

My two mutts and Bogart, step-daughter’s dog, are getting along well.  There was an incident the second morning, where my trusting spouse, let Maggie out of the yard to test whether or not she would stay within property lines.  Needless to say, Maggie headed for the nearest ravine–full of briars.  The recalcitrant pup was retrieved; and in the process, we met Roxanne–the nice neighbor lady across the street.  It turned out we had mutual acquaintances, and received an invite to an upcoming soire.

That’s the view from here in the northern climes.  The leaves have yet to change, but the temps have gotten into the forties at night.  Another impromptu committee meeting could happen at any time.  More volunteers could join this rag-tag army.  Wouldn’t that be something?

Ding-Dong You’re Dead

What would the neighbors think?

Gossip flew all day long

Enormity of non-conformity

Explained especially for me

Of course they were–they always were

Refused, till owls hooted in hell

Whiskers looked good on catfish

Butter on butterflies–not so much

Old fashioned passion, preferred it that way

Nobody could see into heart’s tinted windows

Mysteries of the soul

Suburban legends

Kept doing what they were doing

Until, ding-dong, they were dead

Did anyone know anyone, anymore?