I've been ensconced in Gibsons' enchanted ferns with Verna for over a month now, and though the natural world, especially in an unfamiliar locale, is always intriguing, I've been paying closer attention lately to the more amusing, idiosyncratic, and unnatural antics of my immediate neighbours.
Catawampus from my study/work room are a collection of teens without any adults ever in sight; they seem like cool kids, and one resident bashes the drumskins through the open carport on sunny afternoons, making the owner of the house at the hypotenuse from us pull his scraggly head-thatch, no doubt (a dead ringer for the grey-balding pudgy foil on the old Benny Hill show), since he's trying to flip the place after purchasing it last month. Verna pointed out that (after I saw him and another guy disappear into the environs with a case of beer) his chief reason in acquiring it was likely to escape his wife at residence #1. Ha.
(Flippers are here, but so are a lot of others cashing out for needed liquidity, then moving back to the city. Small communities can be tough niches to establish a viable living. "For Sale" signs are as prevalent as mini-skirts at Saturday midnight on Seymour Street.)
Then there's the old-timer next door who, in the summer, was (with a brother?) constantly digging, scraping, and piling over materials atop a mysterious cistern-like declension. No bodies, according to the TV or local papers, have been reported missing hereabouts.
As the observations continue, the slightly disturbing thought appears: what are they thinking of me? (Not that I've taken to climbing up branches with chestnuts in my mouth -- yet.)