The Husband and I live in a traditional colonial style house with quite a bit of yard in a film-like slice of suburbia. Rural suburbia. Think "Pleasantville" meets "The Wonder Years" meets "The Waltons." Our streets are lined with antique street lamps, children can be seen playing on every corner and there is rarely a street that isn't occupied by at least one or two picket fences. We actually have neighbors that bring us baked goods almost on a weekly basis and another set of neighbors that drop by multiple times throughout the summer with fresh vegetables from their backyard garden. Case in point? We love our little slice of suburbia. Except during Spring Cleaning.
Twice a year the town sends out a flyer, denoting two specific days during which residents may leave downright junk out at the curb with the promise that the town will be by to pick it up the following morning, no questions asked. Well, my friends. It's a wonder there's anything left for the town to pick up the next day. How so?
You see, parallel to our beautiful little slice of suburban paradise, lies an older neighborhood full of.. well.. let's just call them "characters." Unlike the pristine landscaped yards of our side of the 'hood, these lawns are often occupied by rusting, wheel-less pick-up trucks, discarded lawn chairs and baby doll heads. You think I'm kidding? It's on these corners where you see little red necked headed children, running barefoot through the street, swinging from a dog leash thrown over a haggard oak tree. Again, I only write what I've seen.
Last night just so happened to be the first night of what our town likes to lovingly refer to as "S-Town's Spring Cleaning!" By the time the sun dropped behind the horizon, our street was lined with plastic lawn chairs, a cracked baby pool, an ancient air conditioning unit or two, some old box fans, a few old couch cushions and our personal contribution, glass shower doors and an old plastic mailbox. And that's when we heard it...
A veritable caravan rolling in. Full of hoopties with makeshift trailers hanging haphazardly from their bumpers. Windows flanked with NASCAR stickers and decal'd MudFlap women. Bumper stickers shouting, "Git R Done" and "Diesel Smoke Makes Me Horny."
The hoots and hollers were almost unmistakable. Our redneck neighbors had arrived.
And before we knew it, they were barely coming to a stop in front of each of the houses before tossing their new found loot into the beds of their... trailers. As The Husband and I sat inside, sipping on Chardonnay and an ice cold Bud Light (hey, we don't discriminate), we listened to a few of our "neighbors" pull up alongside our curb. Immediately, one of them let out a hearty, "HELLS YEAH! THIS HERE IS THE MOTHERLOAD! Jiffy, Come check this out!"
Jiffy. Oh, that poor sweet boy. And just like that? Our shower doors and plastic mailbox were gone. You know how that saying goes...