Spamboy

I forget their names, but back in the day we had some amazing next-door neighbors when we lived in Southlake. The husband was pure Texan, tall, handsome, well-mustached and born wearing his Stetson. His wife was homecoming-queen gorgeous, and together the two of them had three adorable children. It was fun growing up next to them, having conversations across the fences and sharing beers with them on long, hot summer days.

Then they moved away, relocating to another part of town and leaving their spread empty. New neighbors moved in named Susan and Ed. They seemed normal enough — an older pair of city-slickers who moved to the country and immediately screwed up their dreams of owning a ranch by purchasing two of the crappiest horses I’d ever seen. Soon after they settled in, my mom and dad invited Susan and Ed over for dinner and a friendly drink. Mother thought it would be a nice occasion to break out her wedding crystal, which didn’t get much use in the casual country setting they lived in.

Ed made quite an impression when it was discovered the hard way that he was a Vietnam War veteran. Something in the post-dinner conversation triggered a flashback, and immediately he was being ambushed in a rice paddy by invisible Charlies. Instincts taking over, Army training kicking in, Ed dove behind our couch for cover and retaliated with a grenade attack of my mother’s crystal. His wine-filled goblet smashed against the far wall, and red wine stained the carpet and furniture all around. Damn Commies!

Needless to say, the relationship between my parents and the new neighbors didn’t start on a high note. Yet mom and dad were still willing to give them a chance.