On neighborhood plotting, cat cartel happenings, and a show

Happenings around the neighborhood have been minimal lately, mostly due to summer and the way it greets you at the front door with a big, wet slap of humidity and rain. Humidity and rain. Humidity and rain. Repeat.  We’ve been spending most out of time in the backyard, the kids by the pool, while I hide from the sun, which is public enemy number one to my fair skin.

But, this has not hindered my calculations to become friends with a certain neighbor who is in possession of one hydrangea bush that is falling over and in desperate need of my pruning.  Or is my table just in desperate need of its blossoms? The line is blurry, I can’t say for sure.  I’ve never actually seen the people who live there and perhaps I could coax some information out of Ophelia, next door.  One can never be too informed on such matters. I know for certain, they don’t appreciate it like I would.  It’s the deepest blue, almost violet and it’s breathtaking.  Stay tuned.

Recently, one Sunday morning, when a coolness still lingered in the air, I tiptoed out the door to the front porch, managing to make a cup of tea and gather a book and journal without waking the children.  The street was still, except for one lone ranger of a man doing yard work before the hot hot heat (remember them) and Rose.  Yes, Rose the godmother of the cat cartel, as deemed by a friend.  Let me paint a picture for you, from the top down.  Fiery red hair, wild and untamed, unnatural and shocking.  A housecoat of black with large white polka dots and a clunky pair of black wellies on her feet.  She did a brief survey of her kingdom, checked out her zoo-like cat enclosure, which is a totally normal thing to have in ones yard and then retrieved a half gallon of milk from inside.  I suppose it shouldn’t surprise anyone that at least ten cats appeared out of no-where, no-where, at the sight of that milk. Like, out of bushes and trees and from under flowerpots and perhaps out of the underground community that may or may not exist.  Just a little gift from Rose, your friendly neighborhood cat lady.  Happy Sunday cats!

And then, there was one day when my next door neighbor, a tall, country grandfather was sitting in a tree that grows on the other side of our privacy fence, cutting down branches, with a saw in his hand and a song in his heart.  A song that filled his heart and at least four backyards as he belted out his duet with Cheryl Crow. People, he just really wanted to soak up the sun and he wasn’t afraid to tell anyone. Sing it, Jesse, sing it. 

Well, that’s all I have to report from this little gem of a neighborhood.  I’ll try to gather something good for next time and I don’t just mean flowers.