Life with Mr Monk

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Occasionally, upon arriving home after a long day at work, I’ll meander on over to Scott’s front porch bench (OCD neighbor, aka Mr Monk) and sit with him out in the sunshine for a bit.  While he strums away at one of his old guitars,  he’ll unhurriedly tell me about his day or a thought that’s been heavy on his mind, often making me chuckle at his questions about life and wonder at the strange adventures he’s gotten himself into over the past 70 years.  Sometimes we don’t say much at all , sort of agreeing in silence that it’s been a long enough day to just sit and rest, listen to the strumming and watch the birds fly by.

Sometimes words just aren’t what a person needs, he seems to get that. Not many do these days.

A most unlikely bit of family to find living next door, to be sure, he’s rather like a long-lost grandpa I never knew.  My dogs he calls Boris and Natasha ( I can only assume from Rocky and Bullwinkle) or when he’s feeling especially cantankerous, ‘the two gargantuan beasts’.  He often refers to me as the  ‘little fairy girl next door’, insisting that upon moving in two years go, I brought life to a Jasmine plant that had been hibernating for the past 10 years in his front yard.

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While I hardly find my presence a likely cause for it’s bloom, I cannot seem to convince him otherwise. He is certain I am part fairy.

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Despite his quirky ways and questionable beliefs about fairies living next door to him, my dear Mr Monk is a delightful neighbor who has, on more than one occasion, taken it upon himself to ensure my health and well-being. I cannot count the number of times he’s called me over to grab a plate of dinner,  watered my garden, warned me about creeps hangin’ out nearby, given me good, solid, grandpa advise, and pointed out minute flaws in the paint on my front door.

This was a text he sent after I thanked him for a flower that mysteriously appeared in my garden one morning in place of another that had been removed.

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After being sick for a week and unable to eat much of anything, Scott decided to concoct some sort of chicken dinner that his mom used to make and assured me I would not have a problem getting it down. Twas the best comfort food I’ve ever tasted.

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And lastly, this one is quite self-explanatory…

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(:  Pardon his french, he has as much sailor in him as I do,  I’m afraid.

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