Bad Neighbors

We have all had them.  You know the kind.  They are always bitching and complaining about something.  The noise is to loud.  The car is on my grass.  Your leaves are blowing in my yard.  Your dog shit, and I can smell it in my living room.  That's right, I am speaking of the ever present "bad Neighbor".  There are a few common denominators that apply to these individuals.  Mine meets most if not all of the needed criteria.  She is old, lonely, prone to drink, and a widow.  I heard her husband died (I can only assume by his own hand) about 5 years ago.  She like many before her has dedicated her existence to spreading bitterness around our planet.  For rhetorical purposes, I will refer to her as Medusa.  Down south, people with proper raisin' avoid screaming and yelling in the street.  Instead we lob innuendos across the street while leaning on the business end of a rake and sipping a beer.  From a distance one would think we were being cordial.  Nothing could be farther from the truth. Just recently, I had my scheduled spring run in with Medusa.  It always involves a particular plant at the corner of my yard.  It is one of those grassy cat tails that requires either the home owner or a contracted Latin agency to perform a day of trimming.  Unfortunately, a few of the trimmings inevitability  blow into Medusa's yard.  Today, she came out of the door with her nose in the air.  She was sniffing the wind like a wolf trying to locate his prey.  She must of gotten a whiff of my Jovan Sex Appeal cologne.  Her demeanor changed immediately; she knew I had been in the yard.  Then, she saw the plant.  It had been neatly trimmed.  She began pacing her yard looking for evidence that would justify her planned attack.  I watched from my window as Medusa stormed across the street with one long blade of Pompous Grass in her hand.  For a brief moment, I thought she may have been recognizing Palm Sunday in her own psychotic way.  I was wrong.  I immediate abandoned my inherited social restraint and met her half way.  She is originally from up north, and despite her extended stay, she still maintains her Yankee accent.  I on the other hand am a true son of the south and find both solace and pride in my "Suthan' Drawl."  We face off like Grant and Lee, but this day would not end with another Northern victory.  This would be my Fredericksburg.  My bayonet was fixed and I met the enemy head on.  I called her a lonely old drunk.  I recommended that she take her Ass back across the street, where she belonged.  I sympathized openly with her dead husband and reminded her that her bastard children never darkened her door.  I informed her that the members of the neighborhood association referred to her as the "Village Idiot".  It was brutal.  After the dust and pollen cleared, she had retreated back to her dreary home.  Her pride and arrogance had been purged.  The proverbial hat was in her hand.  I am sipping a beer at this very moment and watching out of my window as Medusa stealthy places a letter in my mail box.  No, it is not what you think.  Remember, we are in the south.  I am confident that it is a brief letter of apology, written on stationary that was acquired while visiting the Master's golf tournament in 1989.  I have received several in the past.  We will return to our cordial daily head nods as we pass on the street, but the war is not over.  Another storm is approaching.  I can almost smell the rain. Ready the horses !!!