Sure we live in an upper-crust yet highly religious neighborhood along St. Andrews Drive. It’s normally quiet and uneventful.
Then every decade or so, something weird happens.
It did the other day. Strange.
It’s possible that other kooky things occur and we are simply unaware of those events. This is probably because a few years ago, we changed our flamboyant lifestyle dramatically.
Time was, we spent more of our flamboyant moments sitting on our front porch “surveilling” our neighbors. (In past columns, I used the word “spying,” but that is now a banned word, according to ex-FBI Director Jim Comey.)
Besides Porch Watching, I also conducted a yearly springtime Acreage Survey. This is where I walked the vast expanse of my land (yard), pausing occasionally to fill my hands with green, green grass and smell its luxurious aroma (while conducting widespread surveillance).
This usually took me four minutes or less, and for many years was an annual excitement-filled tradition. A few years ago I found it difficult to walk the entire four minutes without several rest stops and started watching more TV instead.
No more Acreage Survey. Sometimes I miss it.
But I began this important piece today (a Sunday, I believe) by mentioning a shocking event that occurred the other day and turned our world upside down. It even surpassed a previous Twilight Zone-like incident that happened maybe a decade ago.
That long-ago bizarre circumstance transpired while Wife Margie and I were sitting on our porch one bright afternoon surveilling neighborhood activity. Suddenly to our wondering eyes did appear, a strange car pulling into our driveway.
We didn’t recognize the automobile or the two people inside. They were old toots. I don’t mean old(er). I mean old.
They didn’t see us on the porch and drove right past us. It was as though they were in THEIR own driveway with plans to put their car in THEIR garage.
We were shocked. Who were those people? What were they doing in OUR driveway? Should we call law enforcement? It was far-out.
As they drove out of sight, I leapt from my rocker. I had to protect Wife Margie at all costs.
I dashed to the back of OUR driveway, and there they sat.
“May I help you?” I asked, politely.
“I think we’re at the wrong house,” one of them responded.
“No problem,” I replied, politely.
“Sorry,” they said. You could tell they were embarrassed.
They backed out of OUR driveway and disappeared down St. Andrews Drive. We never saw them again.
Is that peculiar or what?
Our latest flaky happenstance occurred recently.
This time we were both inside and heard what sounded like a truck outside on St. Andrews. Maybe a City of Baytown truck of some sort.
Wife Margie couldn’t stand it, so she went to the window and looked out. What she saw was shocking.
“It’s backed up in OUR driveway,” she said.
“What?” I queried.
I leapt up and saw it with my own eyes. It was one of those trucks that deliver packages.
(NON-EDITOR’S NOTE: I won’t identify what company because the driver was a nice young man and I don’t want to get him trouble. Let’s just say you would recognize the name.)
I dashed outside. “May I help you?” I asked, politely.
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to backup in your driveway,” he replied.
“Then why did you?” I thought to myself.
Since it was before Mother’s Day, I thought maybe he was delivering a gift to Wife Margie. Nope.
“Do you have a package for us?” I queried.
“No, sir, I just needed to straighten up a number of boxes in my truck so I backed into your driveway,” he said. You could tell he was embarrassed.
“Would it be alright if I finish straightening my packages?” he requested.
“Sure,” I said, being the polite guy I am. “Have a nice day.”
He soon finished and drove away. Strange.
Jim Finley is a retired managing editor of The Sun. He can be reached at email@example.com, Attention: Jim Finley.