Classic Rock Sunset
Normally, I love this time of the evening. It is my highly anticipated relaxation time on the front porch after a long and busy day. I make a tall glass of iced tea, light a cigarette, and take in the scenery. The air begins to cool ever so slightly, and rays from the setting sun slice through the pine trees in the front yard. All is well, and would be oh-so-perfect with the world right now, if only my next door neighbor was not so in love with his damn outdoor speakers.
I enjoy listening to the classic rock station just as much as the next guy. I advocate an individual right to listen to whatever style of music moves a person, and whatever brings an individual the most pleasure in the moment. I’d just prefer not to be subjected to it (this loudly) while I’m sitting on my own front porch. C’mon.
I would not begrudge my good neighbor the desire to enjoy his new sound system. He is a family man who works in the field of law enforcement. Along with a few of our other neighbors, I hold a great respect for the service that he and his comrades provide.
They are out in the world, every day, keeping us safe from the bad guys. Durwood and I are always eager to express our appreciation to all of them, and we feel fortunate to live in a neighborhood where so many of our county deputies make their home. Living in a sparsely populated area that is far removed from any nearby town has been most relaxing for us. We enjoy a peaceful sense of comfort, knowing that practically every other one of our neighbors is well equipped with highly trained eyes and ears. This could only be a downfall if I should ever decide to cultivate some marijuana seeds in my herb garden.
Durwood has mentioned the excessive volume level to our neighbor during a few recent man-to-man, over-the-fence, how-goes-it-buddy conversations. It would seem, however, that our dear neighbor has once again forgotten his apologetic assurance that he would consider his fellow residents in regards to the length and volume of his outdoor entertainment habits. Mutual respect would seem to have fallen by the wayside. Surely he cannot possibly even HEAR the music any longer himself, now that he is at least 600 yards away at the end of his driveway, while operating a gas-powered weed eater?!?
Durwood walks out of the front door with a coffee cup in his hand. He would have to be deaf to NOT hear the loud music blasting directly toward our front porch. He turns in my direction, and with a furrowed brow, he shuts his eyes tightly.
“Can’t you do something about that?” he asks.
“Like what?” I want to know. (I know exactly what he means, but I’m going to make him say it.)
“You know,” he continues. “Like a spell or something?”
“A spell to do what, exactly?” I reply. (Now I’m just being difficult.)
“I’m thinking a pair of broken speakers would be sufficient,” Durwood is quick to reply.
“I don’t do that kind of work,” I remind him.
“I’ve actually considered sneaking over there one night to break them myself.” He ignores me, and mentions this idea to no one in particular.
“Sure,” I think to myself. Mr. Classic Rock is a S.W.A.T. member and his wife is a detective with the Sheriff’s Department. They have a healthy arsenal of weaponry just inside their mudroom. Durwood built the cabinetry that stores their occupational equipment himself. Creeping around outside their home in the middle of the night sounds like an insidiously brilliant plan.
“You could just talk to him again,” I suggest.
“Or you could just stop being such a good witch,” Durwood counters. “Maybe send one of your bird friends over there to build a nest in the stereo wiring or something.”
This assumption provides me with an opportunity to repeat the wisdom found within the words of the Wiccan Rede:
“Ever mind the rule of three. What ye send out comes back to thee.”
Just to emphasize the notion of reciprocal actions, I always told my kids that karma would define the number as being equivalent to more than ten times, instead of three. (I picked up this exaggeration habit from my mother. It always seemed to instill a critical air of importance to lessons that I wanted my children to remember.)
A similar warning to Durwood might have been in order, had I not realized that he was already on his way down the driveway and headed toward the fence, to have what I hope is another friendly chat with our neighborhood S.W.A.T. team captain.
Unnecessary witchcraft will not be entertained this lovely and fair evening. Unless, of course, one of my bird friends has been eavesdropping…:)
time to build a wall..