"You are me?"
The Judge on "What's Up, Doc?"
When Brian and I got married, we moved into a small house down the street from where we live now. 
The house had belonged to "Grandma Powell" and everyone in our ward oriented themselves to our living situation by telling us their connection to Grandma Powell, a woman we'd never met because she died when we were in grade school. Our neighbor to the east, Gladys Kravitz (not her real name) somehow caught Brian every time he took the garbage out or mowed the lawn. She liked to bestow bits of wisdom on him ("If a dog is on your property, you can shoot it") and let him in on the juiciest gossip she had at hand. During our time at Grandma Powell's house our west neighbors began a major construction project turning their ancient house into a nursing home, usually at 6:00 a.m. on Saturday mornings. Dust would come blowing into our house from the cracks in the windows and the front door.
After about six months of married life, Brian couldn't live without a dog any longer, so he brought Maggie home one day. Our backyard went on forever since we had no fence and there were a few acres of field back there. Brian fashioned a rope and post situation for Maggie in the backyard and she would spend the first ten minutes of every day running in a smaller and smaller circle until she was the loser of Tether Maggie for the remainder of the day. She never figured out that more freedom awaited her if only she could run in circles the other direction. We got Maggie before we knew that our home town is a free range dog town. When we were home, we'd take turns running off the town dog bullies and calling animal control. One dog in particular always avoided capture no matter how enticing the meat we put in the traps animal control left for us. (Since we still live in the same town, the dog - The Artful Dodger - remains Brian's white whale. Last fall Brian was driving out of the neighborhood when he noticed The Dodger sauntering up to Maggie's dog run. Brian turned the car around and drove back into the driveway, got out and ran toward the The Dodger to kick him, but he got away again. Afterward Brian noticed the Primary President and her daughters standing on our front porch watching him.)
Not long ago a newly married couple moved into Grandma Powell's house. They planted an odd assortment of flowers, put a wooden owl in the cherry tree in the front yard (to scare the birds), tried using the window boxes. Then they put up a small chicken wire fence between the front yard and the backyard. Then they got a yellow lab puppy. They are us eleven years ago.
(Here is Maggie today -
the sadder but wiser dog, untethered in our fenced-in backyard.)
The house had belonged to "Grandma Powell" and everyone in our ward oriented themselves to our living situation by telling us their connection to Grandma Powell, a woman we'd never met because she died when we were in grade school. Our neighbor to the east, Gladys Kravitz (not her real name) somehow caught Brian every time he took the garbage out or mowed the lawn. She liked to bestow bits of wisdom on him ("If a dog is on your property, you can shoot it") and let him in on the juiciest gossip she had at hand. During our time at Grandma Powell's house our west neighbors began a major construction project turning their ancient house into a nursing home, usually at 6:00 a.m. on Saturday mornings. Dust would come blowing into our house from the cracks in the windows and the front door.
After about six months of married life, Brian couldn't live without a dog any longer, so he brought Maggie home one day. Our backyard went on forever since we had no fence and there were a few acres of field back there. Brian fashioned a rope and post situation for Maggie in the backyard and she would spend the first ten minutes of every day running in a smaller and smaller circle until she was the loser of Tether Maggie for the remainder of the day. She never figured out that more freedom awaited her if only she could run in circles the other direction. We got Maggie before we knew that our home town is a free range dog town. When we were home, we'd take turns running off the town dog bullies and calling animal control. One dog in particular always avoided capture no matter how enticing the meat we put in the traps animal control left for us. (Since we still live in the same town, the dog - The Artful Dodger - remains Brian's white whale. Last fall Brian was driving out of the neighborhood when he noticed The Dodger sauntering up to Maggie's dog run. Brian turned the car around and drove back into the driveway, got out and ran toward the The Dodger to kick him, but he got away again. Afterward Brian noticed the Primary President and her daughters standing on our front porch watching him.)Not long ago a newly married couple moved into Grandma Powell's house. They planted an odd assortment of flowers, put a wooden owl in the cherry tree in the front yard (to scare the birds), tried using the window boxes. Then they put up a small chicken wire fence between the front yard and the backyard. Then they got a yellow lab puppy. They are us eleven years ago.
(Here is Maggie today -
the sadder but wiser dog, untethered in our fenced-in backyard.)
1 comment:
Yeah, but can you fix a hi-fi? ;-)
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