BEWUTHERED AND CONFUSTICATED
I walked out of my house this morning, prepared to gingerly navigate an icy path to my car, only to discover that some beautiful soul had shoveled my sidewalk as I slept — clean as a whistle. Who the heck was it? The houses on both sides are occupied by renters, and their landlord, who does all their shoveling, is not the thoughtful sort. Can it be the same person who placed a stuffed raccoon on my front porch and periodically leaves doughnut offerings to it? One day last winter the person left a fried egg with a sausage link. (I kicked the raccoon off my porch a couple of times, but it just reappeared, and the idea of messing with it just started to spook me; so there it remains).
Reveal yourself, kind — and maybe crazy — sir! Claim your just reward.
posted by kc @ 10:55 AM
7 comments
7 Comments:
I wish your kind sir would visit our house, with our almost 200 feet of sidewalks! Living on the corner is nice except when shoveling (or replacing) them.
I think you have a secret admirer! That's so neat!
Maybe when they leave you a new doll, you should leave it where they left it, but set out a little plant or something for them to take back. That would be a proper acknowledgment, unless you have a stalker, which could be problematic, though your sidewalks would remain clean.
Beware the Mormons! That's exactly the kind of nonsense they pull all the time.
Mormons! You think? I had not considered that possibility, but maybe you're right. The other night I had two adolescent girls in old-fashioned skirts accost me as I came up my front steps. Baptists, they said. Asked me if I already went to church, and I said yes just to avoid the sales pitch.
Cl, I will ponder your strategy of reciprocation. You may have something there. I think allowing the raccoon to squat on my porch for more than a year has been a signal of ... some sort. If it makes someone happy to have the little critter there, it's OK by me.
Ben, I have scooped your walk, remember. I'm familiar with its size!
Could you come by and do it again? We haven't gotten around to it.
The leaves underneath the snow should make it easier.
While walking through a park in Boston, we came across a sculpture dedicated to the victims of the Irish potato famine. And someone had lovingly cooked maybe 30 fried eggs, tons of sausage links, and toast and bagels—the sculpture was covered with food. And my friend Alan, beside himself, exclaimed, "THAT'S why I love Boston! You don't see insanity like this anywhere else!"
I'm happy this particular brand of crazy has come to Lawrence. I say, welcome the mystery.
I love Boston.
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