Neighborly

Living in the woods means we're not very close to our neighbors, but that doesn't mean we're not aware of them. Our closest neighbors have two stubborn bossy basset hounds that think they own the road and don't like to allow us access. They stand in the middle of our bridge and bar the way down the driveway, and they give Hopeful a terrible time whenever she tries to get by. "Hey you hounds," I tell the bossy bassets, "this is my driveway. I live here. You don't. Go home." They're too busy barking to listen, but they don't bite, so I walk right by.

And then I walk down the road and up the hill, taking a break to admire the stack of sycamore logs the friendly guys from the power company left behind and to watch Hopeful romp on the frozen creek, and I see that another neighbor has added a new item to a fallow field already well decorated with rusting machinery. I think it's the bucket of a cement mixer, but I could be wrong. That orange-red color catches the eye...a few flashing lights would make it positively festive.