"To know one's self is wisdom, to not know one's neighbors is genius."
The random smattering of humanity that lives near me is a mixed bag. Like humanity, it's mostly good. Having so many neighbors is new to me. Growing up in the country, I never lived in a neighborhood until recently. Before neighbors meant the kid who lived a field over. Now it means the creepy guy who just lopped 6 feet off my bay tree without asking.
By and large though, the little social interactions that have started developing are awesome. There's the lady who brings her giant German Shepard puppy over to beat up Winston. Or the couple who always invites me to watch Duck games. That sense of community is definitely a thread in the tapestry of a good life.
A few houses down is an elderly retired couple. They'd always commented on how handsome my dog was when I'd walk by, and before long I'd find myself stopping by their house for beer and toaster strudels. I've loved being around old people ever since I was a kid and my dad took me to the retirement home where he worked. Old people just love you, because so many of them just want company.
Over beer and a toaster strudel the old guy tells me about his myriad health aliments. How he's died three times. And how much he likes wolves and bears. His sweet wife tells me how much her husband complains and that she gets bored in the mornings because he sleeps to 11. Mostly though, they just ask about me.
This couple is a pair of high school sweethearts who made it all the way to a golden retirement. They are about as old fashioned as it gets. The kind of couple that makes girls get all girly and say "I want that."
So you can imagine my surprise when walking by their garage sale Saturday morning, I see "Playboy" listed for sale. And sure enough, in a box, there are old issues of Hugh Hefner's rag. And the man tells me about them matter-of-factly "You should check them out." And his wife is smiling at me as sweet apple pie.
Now if I had Playboys (which I don't), I sure wouldn't sell them at a garage sale. I'd feel guilty, tear my name and address of the cover, and try to secret them away in the dead of night.
The guy selling Playboys at his garage sale is never the one you expect. Lesson learned.
The random smattering of humanity that lives near me is a mixed bag. Like humanity, it's mostly good. Having so many neighbors is new to me. Growing up in the country, I never lived in a neighborhood until recently. Before neighbors meant the kid who lived a field over. Now it means the creepy guy who just lopped 6 feet off my bay tree without asking.
By and large though, the little social interactions that have started developing are awesome. There's the lady who brings her giant German Shepard puppy over to beat up Winston. Or the couple who always invites me to watch Duck games. That sense of community is definitely a thread in the tapestry of a good life.
A few houses down is an elderly retired couple. They'd always commented on how handsome my dog was when I'd walk by, and before long I'd find myself stopping by their house for beer and toaster strudels. I've loved being around old people ever since I was a kid and my dad took me to the retirement home where he worked. Old people just love you, because so many of them just want company.
Over beer and a toaster strudel the old guy tells me about his myriad health aliments. How he's died three times. And how much he likes wolves and bears. His sweet wife tells me how much her husband complains and that she gets bored in the mornings because he sleeps to 11. Mostly though, they just ask about me.
This couple is a pair of high school sweethearts who made it all the way to a golden retirement. They are about as old fashioned as it gets. The kind of couple that makes girls get all girly and say "I want that."
So you can imagine my surprise when walking by their garage sale Saturday morning, I see "Playboy" listed for sale. And sure enough, in a box, there are old issues of Hugh Hefner's rag. And the man tells me about them matter-of-factly "You should check them out." And his wife is smiling at me as sweet apple pie.
Now if I had Playboys (which I don't), I sure wouldn't sell them at a garage sale. I'd feel guilty, tear my name and address of the cover, and try to secret them away in the dead of night.
The guy selling Playboys at his garage sale is never the one you expect. Lesson learned.
1 comment:
Don't come to my garage sale.
Love,
Dad
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