Rick Watson
Publisher's Note: Rick Watson passed away unexpectedly Thursday, July 16. His column has run in the Cahaba Sun since its inception. It also ran in a variety of other publications including 280 Living and the Daily Mountain Eagle in Walker County. His writing and photography has run in a variety of publications over the past 15 years. Rick was also a musician and played many performances with his wife of 45 years, Jilda. He was as kind, thoughtful and witty of a person as you’d ever hope to meet. He will be greatly missed by many. Rick’s columns will remain archived on cahabasun.com, 280living.com and mountaineagle.com. His latest book, “Life Goes On,” is available on Amazon. His blog can be found at rickwatson-writer.com.
I’d just finished weed eating the backyard fence and was sitting in the shade sipping ice tea when I heard a rumble at the house across the road. The place has been empty for a few months, so I stepped over and peered between the gardenia bushes to get the snoop-scoop. A young man was taking down the “For Rent” sign by the driveway.I mumbled to myself — we have new neighbors.
The next day was Saturday, and I heard a push mower spring to life behind the place. Soon, the tall weeds that were as thick as a wooden fence were history.
A while later, another car pulled into the drive. The two of them worked hard cleaning around the place for most of the day. I like that in neighbors. Someone who’s not afraid to get their hands dirty and knows the meaning of hard work. As they pulled out from their new driveway that evening, the streetlights had just blinked on.
On Sunday, I spent the morning converting our winter greenhouse back into a screen porch. By the time I’d finished, my shirt was wet. Flipping on the ceiling fan, I sat down to let the cool breeze from the fan dry my shirt.
Our new neighbors must have started working inside their new place. With open doors and windows, I could hear the muffled sound of music playing as they worked, and I thought I heard a small dog barking from somewhere deep inside.
Jilda and I debated on whether to step across the road and welcome them to the neighborhood. We did that with some neighbors in the past, and the two of them looked at us as if we had leprosy. That chilly encounter cost them one of Jilda’s world-famous “slap yo’ mama” pound cakes as a welcome to the neighborhood gift.
In all honesty, I can see why people are standoffish when they move into a new neighborhood — this day and time, who knows what kind of person lives next door. Act friendly one moment, and the next moment, they are breaking into your house while you’re at Wal-Mart, rumbling through your medicine cabinet and stealing your stereo.
When our new neighbors get settled in, we will step over and introduce ourselves and try not to act too weird, though that is sometimes challenging for me.
I’d like them to know that we’ve lived here since Jimmy Carter was in the White House. We don’t play our stereo too loud on work nights, we don’t drive like Dale Earnhardt on these narrow, bumpy roads, and we pick up litter from the roadside each day when we walk.
We’re mindful of boundaries, and we can be trusted to feed the dogs and pick up their mail when they occasionally go out of town on the weekend.
We’ll do our best to be the kind of neighbors we’d like to have if we moved to a new community.
