There is a gorgeous tree across the street, a harsh fiery streak of red amongst a sea of dry, dulling greens and washed out yellowish browns. A narrow strip of sun slices through the early morning shadows to fall directly on the flaming tones.
And I'd totally take a picture to show you, except that between my window and the tree-of-such-beauty-that-ohmygod-it-would-change-your-life, dangle The Bucket People's unmentionables.
I see London, I see France, I see my neighbors' underpants. Right there on the clothesline.
Apparently the men in the house enjoy boxers AND briefs, while Mama Bucket rocks the grannies.
All of which is WAY more information about my neighbors than I ever cared to possess.
I should probably stop referring to them as The Buckets, now that I have two little sets of ears that like to listen to, and then repeat, lots of fun things that I say. But we've been calling them The Bucket People for nine years now, since we moved in and found them dealing buckets from their side yard, complete with a hand painted sign attached to the fence that read, "Buckets: $.50". Their yard was littered with white plastic buckets.
Here a bucket, there a bucket, everywhere a bucket-bucket.
It would seem, however, that the bucket business is not a lucrative one.
Because one day, a big truck came and took all of the buckets away.
Which meant The Bucket People could then fill their yard with even yet still more crap.
Crap such as: non-working snow blowers (4), old lawn mowers (2), tires (oodles), discarded lawn furniture, tarps (which, by the way, don't actually cover anything; they're just random blue tarps tossed here and there), rusty bikes (4), a Little Tykes basketball hoop, and assorted cuts of lumber.
And of course, I can't forget the prerequisite broken down car in the driveway (which my 5 year old thinks is a race car and therefore the most awesome thing EVER).
It's black. It looks a lot like this:
Except it's all rusty and dirty and old.
And with the engine less IN the car and more NEXT TO it.
Also, they have a go-kart. Which doesn't actually go.
So I was super-psyched this summer when The Buckets added a new mode of transportation to their collection of Shit That Is Supposed to Go But Doesn't. The eldest Bucket Boy (a.k.a Carrot, so named by my oldest son who was unable to properly pronounce his actual name, Derek) bought himself a boat.
Guess where it is?
You got it.
Because, really, why put a boat in the water when you have perfectly good yard space available?