The Noble Art of Walking

The neighbor who lives to the left of us is cranky. He’s the reason we have to tread Anne-Frank-softly after nine, can’t shower before five, and go out of the way to ensure that our dog does not bark. He’s called the police on us before. The policeman was rather confused.

The neighbors on our right have two college-aged sons and a garage full of trains. Model trains, and tracks–boxes and boxes of them. It’s quite impressive. He should buy a striped awning and flags and sell tickets to all the neighborhood children. We could wander in there for days.

His own children get home late, slamming their car doors to silence their bass near 3am… (& how would you know they get home so late, Sam? Well… about that…) One rides a unicycle, though, which is a massively redeeming factor. It almost makes up for their cars–parked in their driveway, and spilling out and into the street. I mean, they try to park some on the curb, but you can only park so many cars on the curb, am I right?

They have cocker spaniels.

There is this older couple that lives across the street, of sorts. Their house is closer to the main road, but their yard comes back to ours. Behind the beach-grass that fences them off is this glorious garden, that the two of them lovingly tend during the summer. In their garage is this glorious green antique car that I’d love to ride even more than the unicycle my neighbor leaves against his garage door.


I think that was better.


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