... ..a door opens ....May 25, 2004   Though I've lived at the Alhambra for almost three years, I've never met the old man who lives directly across the street.  If he has a wife, I've never seen her.  I have spoken to his grandson, however.  In a vain attempt to impress the child's mother one Christmas, I helped the little shit find his lost doggie.  Sometimes I watch the old man mow his front yard.  He uses an electric mower that isn't cordless.  It's long on quiet, but short on efficacy.  Avoiding electrocution is a time-consuming minuet of cord lifting, bowing, and twirling.  The yard is the size of a throw-rug, but it takes the old man six hours to mow it.  When I say "mow" the yard, I really mean "pass over" it.  The blades do not cut.  Yesterday I watched the mower stall on a stick of margarine.  The old man and I shall remain as two ships passing in the night for tomorrow I migrate to Greenmullet, home of the jumping fish, the Great Blue Heron, and the Rather Spiffy White Egret. previous..|..current..|..archives..|..2d quarter index..|..next

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