The Yard

If it is one thing that I detest with a passion, it is rubberneckers. Those who slow down an’ crane their necks to take in accidents or anything that could possibly resemble forms of suss.

Yet, when it comes to this particular yard, I am a hypocrite.

I slow down and crane my neck to unnatural angles just to get a good look at The Yard’s happenings, for there are always all kinds of excitement going on in The Yard.

See, it all started years ago, when I was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on my way to work. I took an idle glance at The Yard, and noticed several occupants engaged in a raucous game of dominoes - at 8:30 in the morning.

There was I, stuck, bitter and depressed at the fact that I had to drag my sleep deprived body to work, and they seemed so …happy; so…relaxed; so….unemployed. And there was pathetic I…adhering to society’s regimented requirement that I go to work to pay bills.

Since then, I have been conducting my own sociological study of The Yard, surreptitiously observing the comings and goings of the ever changing occupants at the domino table. Pondering if truant officers ever went to roun’ up the little pickneys, who always seem to increase in number whenever I pass, and are always scampering around in their bare, calloused feet, irrespective of the season. I, observing the pregnant mamas cantering flirtatiously around The Yard, unimpeded by their big bellies, eventually noticing when svelte figures would reappear, and newborn babies then given to the care of she whom I deem to be The Yard’s Matriarch, who always has an infant snuggled against her voluptuous bosom.

The Matriarch is always sporting her worn house dress and curlers, with breasts hanging to her knees. She is the ruler of all she surveys, as she sits regally in her strategically positioned chair, observing The Yard’s happenings, and doling out a slap now and again to a recalcitrant urchin as they pass her by. The newborns seem to grow up overnight, to join the herd of pickneys that are always romping in The Yard, all of whom are absolutely fearless, some even darting into traffic as they play daring games of catch, or on the way to the store to run an errand for the Matriarch. Woe is onto he or she who should ever hit one of those little daredevils!

Today, I watched in bemusement as Two Foot Tall urchin violently expressed his vexation at his five foot tall counterpart. They punched, bit, and flung expletives at each other, all whilst being cheered and jeered by the other occupants of The Yard. Mr. Two Foot was uncaring as to the size differential between he and his rival, though eventually, after being subdued by a WWF headlock, he escaped to eventually return and pelt a rock-stone and run. Sigh…a man after my own heart.

Need I mention that he pelt the rock-stone in the direction of traffic and nearly broke my car window? I took it as a sign from the Lord to mind my own business.

Needless to say, had Mr. Two Foot’s act of defiance broken my car window, one has to choose their battles very wisely. This is not the kind of Yard where I could act out in righteous indignation and demand financial restitution and / or repairs from the relevant parties. Matriarch and her gang of pickneys, would pro'ly jump up and kick my backside, right there in the middle of town. The shame would’a kill me more than the beating.

And on that cowardly note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.