And then Imaayu and Shyrrl showed up at my door with a copy of the program from Mr. Johnson's funeral, which was today. Imaayu said it was a nice service, and we talked for a bit about Mr. Johnson, a decent man and my neighbor. And my family and friends know that I often talk about how I wished I lived in a fancy hotel, with room service and no yard to worry about and all the modern conveniences, oh, how I love to stay in hotels, I don't care that they are impersonal, they are clean and people take care of you and then they leave you alone. But there are no Mr. Johnsons in the hotel, no Imaayus or Shyrrls, no Laurelles or Robs, no A's fan who works on his car or lady across the street who fills her home with black Santy Clauses for xmas, no frat boys on the corner, no bipolar guys who think Ron Dellums is their father. Nope, you need a neighborhood to get that, and even I am not so blind or alienated that I can't appreciate what my neighborhood has to offer.
So here's to Mr. Johnson. And here's to the ending of Pieces of April, which after all wasn't any less believable than having a bad day with broken-down cars and trips to the doctor that turned into a day where a dependable mechanic and gracious visits from neighbors made a grey day in February seem a little like Thanksgiving. A good Thanksgiving.
Seven on a scale of ten.
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