You Didn’t Have To Love Me Like You Did, But You Did

Man oh man, a lot of people have been nice to me and my family this last week. We’re moving to Rumford Maine, and the old saw about moving is really true: A good friend will help you move; a great friend will help you move a body. Well, I had dozens of friends, relatives and neighbors helping me empty all the shallow graves one accumulates when you live in one place for a long time, and I’m profoundly grateful to everybody.

My new neighbors are extraordinarily thoughtful and generous and kind and convivial. Some have ugly dogs and beautiful souls — a common combination. Another is some sort of wild-eyed writer dude, and it appears he’s educated at it, although it doesn’t seem to have hurt him none. Like all decent people, I am always deeply suspicious of persons that understand the Harvard comma, but he exhibits his cap and gown behavior only when cornered, and talks dress-casual the other 364 days of the year, which is a help to me.

The magnificent Mr. and Mrs. Bird Dog sent us a jolly spray of spring posies, the first thing ever delivered to our house. He’s another sort of fellow that understands the Harvard comma but won’t let on that he does. Bird Dog’s wife is a great beauty and I’m sure he has trouble demonstrating the requisite feats of strength to impress her enough to keep him around, and I hope he continues, as the flower selection will no doubt suffer if she’s not involved.

Marvelous polyglot lot around here amongst the tall stands of Yankees. Ebeneezer from Ghana and I talked furniture over the barbeque yesterday. Speaking of feats of strength, our teenaged neighbors Yago from Spain and Luiz from Brazil helped shlep our stuff inside. I have a corroded soul and didn’t mention the cast iron everything a woodworker favors until the truck door opened. We told them they could play X-Box with the large heir when we were done, and having unblemished souls, they don’t know a carny’s come-on when they hear it.

I’ll spend time in hell someday for that one, which is fine with me — as it’s a hell of a lot warmer than Rumford, Maine.