I love my neighbors. All of them, both in the city and on the lagoon.
To clarify–because I live in the figuratively rich Bible Belt–I’m referring to the people who live within walking distance of my house, and not the global neighborhood of humankind. (Yeah, yeah, I love them, too. Just not talking about them right now.)
Most of the interaction begins with the helpful conversation starter at the end of the leash.
A couple of weeks ago, my aging dog was nosing in a fascinating stand of monkey grass while I watched a neighbor I’d never met water his thriving rosemary.
He startling me out of serious contemplation involving the poor condition of my rosemary by calling out, “Beautiful dog.”
Thanks to my handy conversation starter, I crossed the street to say, “Your rosemary looks so good. Mine has whiteflies.”
I don’t like milk much, either, so I’m willing to put a couple of tablespoons of milk in a spray bottle of water and drench my whitefly-infested plants.
I hope rosemary, after, will look a lot better than the anemic, whitefly-sapped rosemary, before.