It doesn't seem to matter where a person travels, every small town, village, hamlet, what-have-you, has it's leading citizen. You know, the one person who everyone else in the town jumps through hoops for when that person speaks. Turned out Aunt Rosebud was one of those people. Don't get me wrong, I am not complaining, and I certainly have no qualms being associated with the town eccentric. Not anymore. Names and money talk... loudly.
The mailbox absolutely contained a large manila envelope, which held the property deed as well as an access card to a surprisingly substantial bank account. Once I had sufficiently recovered from balance shock and had picked myself up off the floor of the financial consultant at the bank, I marched across the street to the local contractor. Though neither the contractor nor his secretary said a word, the eyes of both popped out of their heads as the job and nearly unlimited finances to fund the project were presented to them. With enough money backing a project, it can be accomplished rather quickly. The house appeared to transform overnight into a renewed vision of its former glory
No sooner was I moved in than people were showing up at my doorstep making themselves quite neighbourly.
Before I knew it, I had a full blown house-warming party on my hands.
Interesting. Small town people either love you or treat you like the plague.
In less than a month I found myself incorporated into their collective small-town psyche. And unwittingly, they have provided enough new material for me to attempt writing again. How long will all this newfound friendship and community love last? Only time will tell. I'm more concerned about the writing.