I have many neighbors who live down the twisting lane beyond my house. None of them, I suspect, will ever become presidents or emperors, bishops or millionaires, or even Division I football coaches with oversized egos. They are ordinary folk, these neighbors, singularly lacking in accolades or extravagance of any kind. But like me, they have dreams and joys and hopes and problems and struggles. When I walk down the lane on a dusky evening, grinning at the glug-glug of the bullfrogs down in the bog, and keeping a wary eye out for the agitated boxer that seems to dislike males of all species, I see my neighbors relaxing on their porches, a beer in one hand and grilling tongs in the other, turning their barbecue to perfection, or cooling their heels in the splash pool. I greet them with a wave or stop to speculate on the weather.
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Kirk Wareham
Kirk Wareham is a father of six, a grandfather of seven, a lover of nature, and an avid reader. His work has appeared in Notre Dame Magazine, Passager Journal, Hearth & Field Magazine, Plough Publishing House, and other publications. He writes from the Hudson River Valley in New York.
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