Friendly Chickens

 

     

     Two families are moving out of our neighborhood. In suburban life, this ranks with a re-arrangement of international alliances.

     All of us will miss the departing ones. They were agreeably quiet and orderly, friendly without being forward. And they leave us facing The Big Question ...

     Who will move in?

     We don't fret about race, ethnicity, age -- things of that sort. We have long been happily diverse in the 'hood. On other matters we sort ourselves according to yins and yangs of attitude. 

     Some look forward to making new acquaintances. But others worry. Will the newcomers amount to invasive species? Will they bring unruly children? Barking dogs? Will they party late or complain if we do?

     We who've known a few neighborhoods understand that the worriers are not without their reasons. 

      One long-ago neighbor might not only drop by uninvited but walk right in. Once, when he wanted a hand, he appeared in my bathroom  and asked me to get out of the shower. 

     Another undertook to raise chickens, which escaped and began appearing at nearby front doors.    

     Another sold used appliances out of his garage, creating random nuisance in our weekend traffic.

     A champ was the brusque bachelor who tired of his affair with the wife across the street. She, however, had not tired of him.  Usually he had no time for the rest of us. But when she crossed over to pursue him, he would show up at our doors to hide. Just dropping in for a beer, he would announce. He'd offer visibly distracted conversation, ignore responses and bolt when the woman went home. Also, he drank a lot of beer.

     When the new people arrive, our neighborhood will face a test of collective character. Will we snoop from a distance as the moving vans unload? Appraise the furniture? Try to catch the pattern of the drapes? 

    And then, with the prospect of new acquaintances, my petty alter ego will begin muttering to me. He is annoyed by sports chauvinists for teams he dislikes, and  people who won't stop talking about the last place they lived; by those who keep perfect yards without visible effort; by wine snobs ...

    The list goes on, alas.

    But apprehension aside, the odds favor an agreeable outcome. We are a live-and-let-live bunch, for the most part. With the weathering of time and experience, our neighborhood angst threshold has gone up. 

     The appliance salesman was surpassed by a fellow who revved his dune buggy at night.

     And the chicken neighbors graduated to ducks.