At 18310 A**** there’s a guy who gave me homemade apple sauce in a pint jar. It was a Christmas gift, but he is also that nice all the time. I’d tell you his name but then I’d have to shoot you;)
He also has a business in his home and has a parcel pickup most days. He puts a sign on his mail box that says “Please honk; I have packages.” I am not certain, now that I think about it, that he has that semicolon but you get the idea.
Minutes before I’d been at Mrs. T******’s taking her medication to her, and she has these rails on her porch where I sneak in some amateur gymnast-like exercises. Because why? It’s there I guess, and because nobody is usually around.
There I was, doing the thing I do, and I looked up to see a girl walking her dog. Oops. Caught. She smiled, and I said a sheepish “hi” and she said “hello”. But it was in a lilting Russian accent with a lyrical O after the hell. Funny.
Fine. So I’m pulling up to 18310 and I don’t honk this time. Why? Well I didn’t want Olga to think I was honking at her, that’s why. I am most certainly not that guy. But perceptions matter sometimes. Other times they cease to matter, and it is time to get moving.
So, I am not blowing my own horn, you see. But, I am moving on down the road.
I earnestly hope to see you there. Hey, maybe I’ll honk;). No. Too rude.