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Vivian, my eighty-years-seasoned neighbor, called Vi, is a mystery only to those who did not return her first cheerful “hi”.
She is an open-book person, ready to love and accept everyone. I met Vi the first day I was out in my yard building a rock garden, two days after moving in. She came roaring down my driveway in an older model of a car, something gray, with long seats. She stopped about a foot from me and got out. I turned and smiled, and so did she.
She was here to offer her son’s tractor services to me for free, tried to talk me into letting him come over here and mow down the trees and bushes that traveled along our mutual wire fence line from the road to the back forty. She called it a “mess”.
We love it like that, I told her. My husband in particular loved it because he is a natural guy, who enjoys sitting on the porch in his boxer shorts on a summer night, catching the breeze, without any gawkers.
But I kept that quiet.
She told me a funny story about catching her husband and his newest girlfriend at a motel. She waited until he paid, and they were walking to their room. Then she fell into step beside him and said “What are you doing, Eddie?” The girlfriend must have known who I was, she said, because she screamed and ran off.
I spent a lovely forty minutes or so politely laughing my head off at Vi’s funny stories. Then she asked again if they could mow the mess away. Which would have given them a clear view to our yard if they had a telescope, and I figured they did. In spite of her terrifically funny stories, I stood my ground.
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