Our Hillbilly neighbours are early risers, so on weekends there is no morning peace but only a less-offensive window of time between when their kids come out to play and when their dad knuckle-walks around to the back of their house, throws open the garage door, cranks up his radio and begins to rearrange his hoard of broken furniture and extruded plastic. Sometimes he finds wood to burn in their smoker. “Just keepin’ it real, Laurie,” my neighbour Hailey calls from two gardens away as she pulls her laundry, now redolent with the smell of smoked sardines, off her line.
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