Crossin' the Line

Back in 1928, a group of friendly folks started a service called the Welcome Wagon. It was a sweet, little gesture to anyone new moving into the neighborhood. My Aunt took on this job for about 5 minutes, when I was a little girl. Problem was, we lived in a crappy town in South Dakota where everyone was eagerly moving out, not in, so the position was fairly useless.

These days, people's attitudes show up long before they do. We generally discover we're getting a new neighbor when we bump into a barbed wire fence and a sassy orange sign that indicates we're on another hiking trail that no longer exists.

I didn't have much of a criminal record until Robert moved in next door. Since then, the sheriff has visited me three times. (I kid you not - his last name is Gunn.)

It's all because my cat, Pete, has the audacity to stroll over there and sun himself on the guy's porch. I don't know how to reason with a cat. Today was Pete's third offense and Sheriff Gunn was back. Lucky for me there are no laws on the books, with respect to cats trespassing, though it's his duty to investigate. And would it kill me to try to be a better neighbor?

Well, yeah. At this point it would. And, why don't you ask Robert that question?

WIND CHIMES
No garden is complete until you add a pretty, little wind chime. Or, in the case of the garden closest to Robert's bedroom window, a half dozen wind chimes are in order. Big ones, small ones, I don't care, as long as they make noise. (Sandy, your solution is brilliant.) They don't call my neighborhood High Wind Estates for nothing... Visit the Wind Chime store.