Apart from the reality that I am quickly becoming one myself, I have an affinity for crabby older folks. Probably just a coincidence I was raised by someone whose siblings called Pat the Crab.

My next door neighbors are on their stoop or about their yard or in my yard constantly and always have something to say, even though there English is dubious and my Portuguese is nonexistent. The first week I lived here, they greeted me with repeated inquiries as to whether I was the boss of the house and more importantly the “bad tree” in my back yard. They threatened to call the police on me if I didn’t cut it down. They filed an insurance claim that the tree had cracked their foundation (It’s yards away and at the wrong angle; the insurance inspector sent to check it out seemed amused.)

Regardless, I still greeted them with a “Hello” and a smile most of the time. It was too funny hearing the old man’s broken English scolding a new victim on the street below my window to really feel offended. He seems to have two tones, loud and “I don’t know the English word, so I’m frustrated” way fucking louder.

A while back, he told me that “my friend, the man, the one with the…” he mimed something about his skin complexion and long hair, “my friend, very nice man, very nice. He pick up trash in street. He smile.” Again he gestured something about M.’s hair and skin, “What is he? Where from?” I love the question “What is he?” since so many amusing answers come to mind.

Figuring that I couldn’t really describe in an English we would both understand the geo-political borders, colonialism, trade routes and ethnic separations that characterize M.’s roots, I just said, “Chinese.”

“No, no, no, not Chinese. He’s a nice man. Gotta watch the Chinese.” He points a few doors down the street to the home of an Asian couple. “Watch those people. They have lot of people come to that house,” pointing to the street across from their driveway, “Don’t park, BOOM. They smack, hit.”

So, I learned, my man is a nice man, but I better keep an eye on him.

Last week, they shouted to me about my T-shirt, “Where is my shirt?” they wanted to know. Their son had pointed it out, and they all thought it was funny. The shirt in question was, of course, the becoming infamous “Fuck Bush! No more in 04” shirt. Apparently, they are not Bush supporters.

The old guy told me the other day, “You know, the other guy? His woman, she speak Portuguese. Lot of people they vote for her, vote for the new guy.” Who knew Theresa Heinz multi-culti bullshit was actually working. I fucking hope there are a couple more immigrants like my neighbor who dig her foreign langauge skills. Whatever it takes to get the Bush ejected.

Today the old couple both were out and saw me with a bunch of empty boxes. (Either way, if I move or M. moves back, I have to pack up piles and piles of shit and get the old life and homestead under fucking control. Well, as best as I can be controlled.) They told me if I move I had to definitely come by and tell them. They told me that I couldn’t move, because I’m a nice lady and a good neighbor.

Almost ten years, and we’ve warmed up to each other.