Here we are, going on three years as residents of a peaceful neighborhood to the west of Houston.  Churches on street corners.  Supermarkets galore.  Highly rated schools.  Good neighbors.  Shade trees.  Thick St. Augustine grass.  Nine Starbucks within five miles.  Shelter from the storm.  But…

In the last thirty months, I haven’t heard a decent Barred Owl shouting match.  I haven’t been surprised by a Water Moccasin enjoying the pool or a Copperhead lounging on the front doorstep.  No decent herd of feral hogs running wild on the other side of Irons Creek.  No sneaky army of Texas Leafcutter Ants laying waste to my struggling Wax Leaf Ligustrums.  No distinct rumble of Harleys whizzing by at midnight on the farm-to-market road out front.

Truth is, I miss the country.  I miss the owls and snakes and hogs and ants and indistinct old men in leather vests riding to be distinct young men in leather vests.  I miss the one hundred-year-old, sixty-foot-tall pecan trees that dropped tasty native nuts every other November.  I miss the creek that ran the length of the backside of our just about ten acres and the abundance of yellow water lilies that thrived in the shallow, brackish water.  I miss the night sky.  The Big Dipper.  The Seven Sisters.  The North Star.  I miss the rambling rancher with oversize bedrooms and mighty stone fireplace.  I miss my wife’s elegantly designed kitchen.  I miss the sanctum of my barn.  I miss my blue Ford tractor.  I miss Chester, the world’s greatest Golden Retriever.  I miss Tigger, the ornery three-legged cat rescued from a garden outside my workplace.  I miss Pico de Gato, the Tabby cat that Chester sniffed out of hiding one Autumn evening.  They are resting peacefully in the rich Brazos riiverbottom soil beneath the pecan tree out back.  People.  I miss the friends we made.  Across the road.  In town, at the little Baptist church where we worshiped for fifteen years.  Great memories.  Lasting memories.  But…

I’m a city boy now.  I don’t have to walk half a football field to leave the garbage can by the road or pick up my mail.  My garbage can is retrieved these days, and bills and trash mail are mere steps away.  Ah, the irritating sounds of a yapping Chihuahua 3 doors down, “Stairway To Heaven” from the folks just across the back fence, a beer belch from the neighbor next door, and outside my bedroom window, Nearly Naked Man, his Speedo daringly hanging just high enough, edging my grass just because he likes to edge grass.  Walmart and Kroger are on the other side of the freeway, 5 minutes from the driveway.  It takes three minutes to pull into the church parking lot.  Sweet.  Maybe city life’s not so bad after all.

I need one Pike Place and one decaf Caffè Mocha, extra hot.  Do you have any Splenda?