PATRICK T. FALLON/AGENCE FRANCE-PRESSE/GETTY IMAGES
I'm the guy who writes books in his garage office in slippers and sweatpants, and very often little else. So I'm in no position to judge my neighbors, be it the mom next door banging on her keyboards while trying to teach herself music, her son with a passion for purchasing old police cars, or my other next door neighbor from China whose husband died suddenly two years ago and who has suddenly found fashion sense and purchased a stylish Mercedes.
Our neighbors from England just sold their home to some gearheads from Corona, off to seek the log cabin life in Idaho. The Home Depot manager amazingly born two weeks earlier than me in the same New Hampshire hospital lives to the right of Callie and I on the cul-de-sac alongside our old friends who just put in a pool.
We all wave. Sometimes we don't talk for weeks, but we all wave. And sometimes we get together down at Paul's on the other end of the street, who taps multiple kegs at a time. No surprise that everyone loves Paul.
A lot of flags went up during the most recent presidential campaign. Yard signs. Surprised revelations about who supported who. A few of those big flags in the back of pickups.
Then came the election. And we kept on waving to flag bearers and yard signers alike.
And then that bullshit at the Capitol Building. People shitting and pissing in the corridors of a mansion they dared to call the "people's house" — as if you would drop your pants and take a dump in full view of your grandmother.
Yet we kept on waving.
Two weeks passed.
This is America. Today is a new day. New president. We were friends in my neighborhood yesterday and we'll be friends tomorrow.
This is my town. This is my country. So flawed and yet so awesome.
God Bless America.