Meet the neighbors or neigh-bros

Even though we haven’t gone far away lately, I have a new cast of characters in my life, and maybe you do too.

I call mine Creamsicle, Cousin Itt, Sonny and Cher, Prince, the Manson Gang, the Crier, the Poodles and the Misguided, just to name a few.

I check on them pretty much every day while pounding the neighborhood pavement.

“Didn’t we just see these people?” I ask.

“That was yesterday,” my husband says, “or maybe last week, who remembers.”

Me: Well at least that trash can is new. I haven’t seen that one before.

Him: They just moved it. Me: It’s a big improvement. If you’re like us, you’re seeing your neighbors and their houses, kids, pets, yards and trash now more than ever. You even know how much pizza they’re eating.

In fact, I’m seeing people I never knew lived around here, yet now they’re part of my clan even if I wish they’d remove that dying oak or turn down the music.

Other than that, it’s been a real pleasure to have a roving group of almost strangers share the same asphalt all hours of the day and night, so here’s a nod to you. You’re my whole new world and I talk about you like real family, since I’m barely seeing my own, and I’ve given you special names and we’ve been chatting about the problems we imagine you’re having.

Pat, for example, the one I call Prince who was also known as “the Purple One,” adores everything violet, lilac and lavender. Her house, the flowers, the wind chimes — all purple. I fear she may be eating too many plums or is going through a midlife rockand-roll crisis which is entertaining but reminds me of old eggplant.

There’s a friendly orange and white tabby cat we always carry back to his lawn. He’s Creamsicle, so sweet and smooth. We worry he’ll wander too far away so we wag our fingers and give him a strict lecture every day: Go Home Puss!

“Cousin Itt” is a small red maple all squat and square that we admire on one yard, yet we’re not sure it’s growing much — and the Manson Gang is a group of young cultish-looking kids that seems to be cleaning or plotting rebellion in a disheveled house on a corner. Maybe I should call the police.

The Crier is the guy who had a yellow lab that died a long time ago and when I say hello he starts crying like it was yesterday. “You need a new dog,” I say. “No one could replace Elvis,” he moans, as if we didn’t know that. He wants to hug me, but we’re social distancing.

The neighbors are becoming my neigh-bros and girls.

Sonny and Cher is a stylish team that strolls up and down the main drag, meaning the little street, in dramatic hats. They seem very devoted and I imagine them at home singing “I Got You Babe.” I worry they’ll split up.

The Poodles are a big standard pup and his equally curly pop who always careen over to our turf because they haven’t learned how to walk on the leash yet, neither of them. And the Misguided is the couple we usually see at the polling place who vote differently than we do. We wave and smile, sort of. We find their house so wrong.

As we stroll on, looking for the next bros and girls ready to be named and claimed as our loveable, annoying tribe, we come upon the Swingers (big lawn swing), the Assembly (chairs lined up on the lawn for what?) and the Dungeon (why is it so dark in there?). But that’s all another story.

Welcome to the neighborhood!