NIMBY
I thought I smelled fire. At the same time, my ear detected the muffled sound of a harmonica. Alarmed, I put the dirty plate I was rinsing into the dishwasher and strained my head to look out the bay window over the kitchen sink. There, in my backyard, were a couple of cowboys sitting at a campfire, boiling up a pot of coffee. Their horses, hitched to the footings of the deck by long leather leads, were munching on the tender Kentucky bluegrass. "Damn," I cursed under my breath, "they're eating the tender Kentucky bluegrass." I've had trouble with rabbits and skunks and groundhogs in the backyard, but never cowboys. These two must have lost their way when they came through the mountain pass and ran into that new monstrosity of a Wal-Mart that sits on the old Stagecoach road. If they went east and took the culvert that carries the trickled remains of the once mighty Shenandoah River, well, that would pretty much lead them right here. "This won't do," I muttered to myself. "They can't camp back there – not in my back yard." I prepared my argument along simple lines of defense. First off, they were trespassing. Second, the County has laws against keeping livestock in suburban backyards. Then there was the open burning, the damage to the lawn, the lack of sanitary facilities. (Where were they going to pee? And worse!) I took a deep breath, unlatched the patio door and stepped outside onto the deck. The cowboys jumped up when they saw me; instinctively, they pulled shiny metal pistols from their holsters. I heard two quick clicks as the guns were cocked and pointed my way. I put my hands up in a gesture of peace. "Easy, boys," I said, and slowly walked down the pressure-treated pine steps to the lawn. "Any more coffee in that pot?"
8:58:22 PM  Novel beginnings
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