Maybe it’s the military in me. I like to know what’s going on in my neighborhood. I can’t help looking up to see who is walking by. I like to know who lives where. What cars belong to what homes. If the fight the neighbors across the street had last week means they are breaking up. Or have broken up. Or will break up. If the pack of kids streaming down the sidewalk belong to our street or if they might be passersby who will knock over my flowers. Yeah, that kind of crotchety old lady at my house. I’ve accepted that label.

Lately there has been a lot to watch, too much maybe.

At least the dog helps:


I care more now that I own a house. No one else will. I have no landlord to blame for the state of things. No one else is going to mow the lawn or pull the weeds or take out the trash or call the cops when suspicious things happen in the alley. That’s on us. I still need to learn, however, how not to see the boogie man around every corner, in every slow driving car.

I’ll work on that.