Someone is clearing the wooded lot just up the road from us, knocking down the cedar stands, old oak trees and elm, brush hogging the wildflowers, blackberry vines and dogwood grees and saplings. We've been alone out here for six years and I've liked it this way, but I guess this means we have neighbors. Surely there are more isolated places that don't require moving in on top of us, other roads with deep pot holes and forbidding trenches created by rain spring run-off (all carefully crafted to discourage tourists from using us as a through route). Why here? Why so close?
I suggested to my husband that we turn the dogs loose, issue the three younger boys red popsicles to eat while they ride up and down the dirt road on their bicycles, invite all of my oldest son's friends over for band practice on the back deck, turn over a couple of trash cans and make sure the it gets scattered into the ditches. Then, for good measure, I could go by in my Cutlass with the windows rolled down and Meat Loaf blaring. He took a look at the equpment they're bringing in and thinks it won't be enough.
I guess it's time to move.