Technically, the Fifth of July

We have the kind of relationship with our neighbors that affords us the ability to freely traverse the lush green valley between our lawns and vice versa. Just the other day, I left an extra tomato plant from our garden on our neighbor's porch with instructions for care. In return, he gave me the secrets to one of his prized cheesecake recipes. Whenever some crazy crime goes down on our block, we commiserate over midnight chats between the shadows of our homes and ring one another's doorbells for spices/tools/advice/trash talk. Really, it's the kind of thing I love most about living in a traditional neighborhood.

This neighbor, Mr. J, is a cancer survivor in his mid-50s. His wife of 30+ years is a quiet lady who wears denim Looney Tunes shirts buttoned to the top and incessantly carries around a small fluffy dog as if it were a mink muffler. Mr. J is quite liberal for a man his age born and raised in the South. He speaks in the sort of genteel Southern tone that requires the long i to sound like a long o. (For months we thought our other neighbor, Mr. Bible, was actually named "Mr. Bobble" due to Mr. J's unique pronunciation.) Though he was skeptical of our commitment to lawn care when we first moved into the house next door, he soon trusted in our ability to uphold his high standard of home maintenance. In fact, I'd say we one-upped up him.

One of our first experiences as neighbors happened within weeks of our arrival in the neighborhood. The Bunny and I would stay up until nearly sun-up in an attempt to finish six months of renovations in a month's time. After midnight, we would take breaks on the front steps, sipping cold beers and fending off the terrible heat wave of 2007. (Remember how the farmer's crops would barely grow that year?) One night, we heard a rustle to our right, and Mr. J emerged, seemingly bald head first, from the dark confines of his covered stoop. He remarked that he is a "night owl," and we put an already-sweating bottle into his fist as he settled in on the second step from the top. With our gigantic hollies guarding us from street view, the Bunny, Mr. J, and I talked with the occasional bumping bass music from passing cars and crickets as our soundtrack.

That night, Mr. J talked about the first place he and his wife rented together. It was the home of a middle-aged, never-been-married woman who found out she had terminal cancer. She meticulously covered every inch of her kitchen in heavy mil plastic, and shot herself in the head. As Mr. J put it, "she didn't want to leave a mess in the kitchen she loved." This tale was followed by the quiet admittance that he once had an affair. As we had only known him a few weeks, I didn't inquire into the details, and I'm certain we changed the subject rather fast. It is likely we discussed plans to merge our side yards into one joint walkway or made plans to cut back our hideous boxwoods. His admittance, however, hung heavy in the air, and neither the Bunny nor I have ever forgotten it.

It seemed like Mr. J just wanted someone to listen. I suppose we provided that opportunity. Then again, Mr. J did have us "listen" in on the fact that his cousin, who works at a busy music store in Memphis, had helped a local legendary musician find the "old school porn with the real bushy ladies" one day at work a few months ago, but that is another story for another night.

When the tornado sirens went off an hour ago, I nudged the Bunny to attention and flipped on the Weather Channel to discover a tornado warning for our county. I suppose we are all programmed to respond in these parts, but I deftly slid on the nearest discarded clothes and fumbled down the stairs with the still-sleeping Sebastian slung against my hip like a toddler. More curious than scared, the Bunny and I went outside to stare at the sky and "feel our way around" this weather. As if on cue, Mr. J emerged nearly simultaneously from his house followed closely by Mrs. J in a post-Mennonite layer of nighttime wear and with dog-muff intact.

It wasn't until I noticed their stares until I realized I was wearing booty shorts hitched nearly to my crotch accompanied by a bra-less tank and bright maroon tennis shoes. The Bunny donned his redneck tongue-in-cheek shirt that I brought for him last Fall: "Overworked and Underfucked" fell loosely above his britches.

Here we were, the four of us representing two generations of marital manifestation, linked by a common lawn, and standing under the same eerily moving sky lit with heat lightning and last minute contraband firecrackers. When the sirens finally faded--the tornado shifting to some other neck of these Tennessee counties--we all said our good nights and entered our respective doors. The Bunny's breathing is rising and falling beside me as I type, but it is likely our night owl neighbor is five yard sticks away from my window in his private office hoping to feel the need for sleep as desperately as I myself want it now.