Outpost reflections

Had a brief event happen yesterday that served as a reminder of just why I'm here. Not just HERE here, but here in this place in life, here on this street in the fair mother city, here on this planet, etc.

We have a new neighbor on our street. This is a rarity as our old neighborhood surprisingly has few rental properties.

Anna is a single grandmother raising two or three of her grandchildren. She moved from Anson, a small town 30 minutes north of here. Her grandchildren are still enrolled in Anson schools and Anna works as some sort of housekeeper in Anson. So, she's gone from about 7:30a until at least 9p every weekday. Agent Wife and I got to meet and talk to her briefly on her driveway last weekend.

She's living in a house next door from the Sanfords and across from Obi-Wan. Some redneck dude and his family lived there and still owns the house, but recently moved to the outback near Clyde. So he's renting to Anna.

In my 3.5 years on this street I never had a chance to connect with the redneck dude. I met him once, but the CEO never seemed to have us cross paths much. So it goes.

On Thursday, The Tiger and his mom Frieda Sanford witnessed a city code-enforcer official leave a warning note on Anna'a door telling her to mow her yard or get a fine.

What a crock. I mean, redneck dude lived there for four years with un-mowed grass, scraggly bushes, and junked cars in the yard and never got harassed by the man. This single grandmother, who has barely moved in and works all the time, gets a citation.

Welcome to the fair mother city.

So, The Tiger's telling of this injustice in great detail. Probably with dramatic exaggeration and so forth. So I ask, "You got a mower that works?" (mine hasn't worked all summer).

"Yeah. I got three that work...and two weed eaters". The Sanfords are are notorious junk dealers. They find lawn mowers at garage sales for $2 and The Tiger somehow gets them running. They may be crappy, but they do the job. Sometimes.

"Well, we ain't doing nothing. Let's get on it".

The Tiger...agent jr. in the making.

Of course he had no gas. And neither did I. We borrowed Obi-Wan's gas in the killer ancient 3-gallon metal can with the cool mechanical cap.

Somehow, we managed to get the three mowers to work through the front yard before they all crapped out. We never got the backyard. The Sanford's equipment can usually get the job half-assed done. Better than nothing, I guess.

So, I don't exactly know what to make of it all. It was a half-assed neighborhood effort. The front looks nice, though.

But somewhere in the midst of all this soul searching and job hunting and net casting...

...the CEO seems to be whispering that I'm right where I'm supposed to be.

However cornball that sounds, and how little sense this makes, and how this doesn't pay my bills...

It's relieving to know the CEO has not abandoned me to this outpost in the West Texas desert.