My neighbor B came by to bring me some cherry tomatoes from her garden. Apparently, the big tomatoes haven’t done well this year, but she has more of the little ones than she can use. I love how she’s always bringing me little treats. It makes me feel special.
I asked her if she knew what the story was behind the mystery move, and she didn’t. There’s one of those combination locks realtors use on the front door, but there’s no For Sale sign on the lawn.
She said that the family had lived there for fifty years! W, the elderly gentleman across the street, has lived in his house for fifty-four years, probably a neighborhood record, and according to B, the Mexicans never talked to him, either. So their total ignoring of me, other than when June clawed the son, is apparently not personal. I thought they were annoyed with me because of June invading their “yard”.
They didn’t even talk to each other. I’ve seen the kids, who are in their late teens or early twenties, cross paths on the driveway or the front porch and not acknowledge each other. Once, the daughter went in the house with the son behind her and apparently locked the door behind her, since he had to ring the bell. They were quite the enigma.
It seems a little ironic that they and their canine prisoners moved out just weeks before I probably will. I can enjoy the peace and quiet while I pack.