El Mexnophibia

Retirement isn't all that it's cracked up to be. I spend most of my time sitting on my front porch counting cars and yelling at the newspaper boy. He's not a bad kid; it's just that he can't seem to hit my front porch with the paper. I have, mind you, on more than one occasion spent most of my morning searching around the yard for the paper, only to find it either in my wife's rose bushes or on the garage roof. I have gone as far as demonstrating the art of paper tossing to the young lad; either he is dumb as a box of rocks or he doesn't like me. I am of the mind that he just doesn't like me. Can't please everyone, I guess.
After thirty-six years of living in the same house, you get to know your neighbors, pretty well almost too well, which can be a problem. I have seen perhaps as many as two dozen families move from this block and move to this block over the course of three and a half generations. However, I wasn't quite prepared for the family that moved in next-door a while back and neither was my wife.