All is calm. Too bad.

For nearly nine years, we've kept an eye on a creative neighbor who had been forever embellishing his front yard in dramatic ways with unusual materials. Large, flat slabs of stone standing upright like thin grave markers. Narrow paths of rock and wood chips with pumpkin vines trailing into the street. Seasonal inflatables - the big, garish ones. Tall totem poles of pumpkins and piles of gourds accented by purple flowers. A dozen plaster pillars topped with silver Christmas trees glowing with eerie green light. 


Last fall he created a tremendous mountain of dirt, covered it with black tarp, put an enormous spider at the peak and peppered the whole thing with scarecrows and carved pumpkins. I anticipated his Christmas display with growing impatience and then disappointment. The scarecrows and past-their-prime pumpkins were buried under the snow but the trees and lights of his (un)usual holiday display never appeared. 

One week this summer, a “for sale” sign popped up amid the visual clutter. I expected to see a dozen more sale signs - perhaps a statement on our sagging economy, but the house was really for sale and sold quickly. The mountain of dirt and corresponding hole in the back yard remain untouched, but the artist has gone. 


Some folks are probably relieved - the house is curiously dark and quiet with not even a single blinking Christmas light.  But I miss that guy. Every neighborhood can use a quirky neighbor.  I'm thinking about applying for the job.