Lookit here. It’s Septober. Already. My, doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? So many lies there, I hardly know where to begin.
Hurricane weather farther south brought us more than customary rainfall, overcast skies, and festering humidity. While it was a nice change not hearing the lawn sprinklers kick in at 5 AM, it made scheduling lawn manicures dicey. It became a matter of either get it done or face a hayfield on returning home. I’d rather have it done, even work a bit harder to handle soggy clippings than to come back to an overgrown yard.
An overgrown yard would of course incur the wrath of the HOA1 an increasingly sore point with most of the neighbors I have chatted with recently. Yes, always from opposite sides of the street, which given that most of the old gaffs in the hood are hearing-impaired anyway, makes for interesting conversations. Too far away to read lips. With masks sometimes anyway, you can’t even see lips, let alone read them.
“You know Buddy’s down south?”
“Buddy drowned a trout? You mean he caught one? Nice. I guess.”
“No. South. Looking in on momma.”
“Comma? You mean a coma? What’s that? How da hell’d that happen fishing?”
“No coma. At his momma’s fixing her porch light.”
“Fishing torch fight? Never heard of such! Still, that’s too Bad. Reckon we’ should look in on his momma? Or Buddy?”
“Buddy is already south. Fixing his momma’s front porch light.”
“Got the torch fight and coma thing. What, you think I’m not paying attention? Bum deal for Buddy. Maybe we should haul his garbage cans in before the HOA dips get all huffy about them being out. Him in a coma and all, you know.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“No, Walter. Buddy’s pretty good about washing his garbage cans twice a month.”
“What’s that, Isaac?”
“Cans likely won’t get to stinking. Not yet, leastways.”
“Yeah, we best tend Buddy’s cans.”
“Right. Be an hour before the trucks come.”
“I don’t see the trucks come first, you get Buddy’s cans up the drive.”
“Lucky to be alive, huh? Musta been one hellova torch fight.”
“So. About that trout. Buddy’s momma likes to fish?”
We got Buddy’s trash cans up to his back yard before HOA LGCRS teams (late garbage can retrieval surveillance) came through. We’d like to have seen them though. Walt’s got a complaint about a Doberman whose owner doesn’t effectively use a pooper scooper. And I have a yelp about a lady advertising her embroidery services with a yard sign.
*1 HOA is Home Owners’ Association. A mandatory pay-to-subscribe clutch of homeowners with a ‘governing body’ overseeing a set of well-intended but generally ineffective and mostly ludicrous rules designed for everyone but followed only by those who would not do contrary to what ‘HOA rules’ dictate even in the absence of those rules. Rules designed to make sure your neighbor doesn’t paint his house fire-engine red with chartreuse doors and shutters, but legally, unenforceable. Guaranteeing everyone has the same mailbox, does not haul trash cans (rubbish bins) curbside too early nor leave them too long after they’ve been emptied, gets HOA landscape committee approval before major changes to trees and shrubberies on their property, and does not park a septic tank service truck in their driveway.