Monday morning around 10:00, I had just sat down on the short couch to watch The Kitchen, a rerun when they were making stadium foods at home. I'd finished washing dishes, and had put a load of laundry in the washer. Jeff Mauro was grilling some hot dogs and steaming pretzel buns.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
What in the Not-Heaven? No dogs had barked. No sound of a vehicle crunching down the driveway. No sound of footsteps clomping up the wooden steps.
I froze. From shock. Then disbelief. Then annoyance. I did not get up.
Here's the thing. This is a private association. No thru traffic, especially up here on our road, where it leads to nowhere. No solicitors allowed, at least according to a sign posted down by the creek, where any sane person would think more than twice about coming up into the woods to annoy gun-toting hillbillies.
I called Farmer H to see if there was somebody he was expecting. No. Except maybe the lady who lives across the creek behind the Mansion, who was going to pick up empty egg cartons that Farmer H had left for her in the back of the Gator. No need for her to knock.
I didn't even bother to turn down the TV volume and pretend nobody was home. It's my house. I was not expecting company. Why should I try to rush to the door? It's hard for me to get up off the couch and hobble to the door. Besides, what if it was a ne'er-do-well? How could I defend myself against a home invasion? I'm not going to open the door when I'm not expecting someone.
There was no sound of footsteps clomping down the wooden steps. No dogs barking. No sound of a vehicle crunching up the driveway. Yet I assumed after a second round of knocks that the unwelcome visitor had left.
We still have no idea who it was. Anybody who wants something out here would announce it to our enclave's Facebook page, or call or text Farmer H directly. I suppose we'll never know what opportunity I missed, or what calamity might have befallen me.
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