On the Southern Rural Route, half of us are retired and the other half works. The retired half are supervised by Mr. Golf Cart in the sense that he pays attention to our comings and goings because he lives at the top of the street on the main drag. Occasionally, he steers his golf cart into the driveway and toots his horn to let us know we are up for an inspection or an inquiry about anything he has seen us doing. Wearing his “Security” hat, he does his level best to keep everyone in line.
A couple of times I was given authority to supervise the neighbors when Mr. Golf Cart went on vacation but when I missed important events – a burglary and a house that burnt to the ground – my authority was revoked.
In the olden days, if Mr. Golf Cart needed to know why he hadn’t seen me around, he would ask Poppie. Obviously, without a seance, this is no longer possible. I’ve taken to reporting my comings and goings to Mr. Golf Cart. I’m telling you, if I suddenly went missing on a day-to-day basis, he’d have the cops out there busting my door down. Not particularly anxious to find my front door hanging from its hinges, I called to advise him of a temporary change in my daily routine. I was going to work a full-time gig for two weeks and two days.
The first morning I rolled down the street to head for my gig, Mr. Golf Cart was out there in his driveway waving a stick with red streamers to wish me well. It’s comforting to know that someone cares enough to do that even if it was a joke.