Summer has inclined its own fervent passion. Those fires in the Sun burn with their own bright muse sucked down by leafy foliage in a huge surround of trees whose circumference is Spring St., one of many narrow avenues meeting the main drag of the Haymont down from that pristine church that hails the section’s center.

If there are stories in this part of Fayetteville, they keep their own sequestered nature hidden. This is a private part of town! Even now, with the acquisition of many of the houses by that infamous officers crop from Pope or Bragg. It is a tendency that was once penultimately present in the old stoic couples who slowly pruned and kept their gardens in all of their simple elegance, to do likewise with the truth, make it discrete and simply clothed!

And so, as these old folk died slowly, and not of a sudden, their instincts sort of spread, to the point, that even in their total absence, this quiet lonely lifestyle remained in at least a partial infection of a somewhat younger and wilder group.

And then, there was in this hidden attraction, this quietly noticed ambiance of privacy, something that attracted likewise, those of generally insular faith and tendencies. Many of our new neighbors, in replacing a variety of ancient couples, moved in with their families and immediately fortressed themselves that much more with a wall of high wooden fences, apportioned that way in particular for the children, the dog, the barbecue pit, and whatever swing sets and swimming pools would offer permanence in future construction... their intentions became likewise permanent.

And a somewhat shy difference in the original make up of the Haymont, was the fact that for all of the pristine yards and gardens, there were a few old rotten houses falling loosely to their disrepair. No one seemed to mind all that much! There may have been a few begrudging remarks here and there, about such characters as “Rat”, with the seedy little apartment he rented... the other half of the house sealed off. The comings and goings of the quiet weeds of humanity, for whatever likely crack deal, or pawn, whatever cussed remark about the “snobs” and so forth.

Jeremy and his various girls, was an even more interesting side show for the bored and decrepit! Biker friends of his brought them by! Would-be writers and artists as well, in that late blooming of extemporaneous bohemian culture.

I do occasionally wonder what any of my family type neighbors are up to. I would swear that a discrete philosophy does not preclude any vice per se. Extra marital affairs must occur at times, but are shielded in whispers as are the lost jobs or the distant relatives dead or imprisoned.

I look across my yard at times and what I see above the fence, from a second story window where I smoke a few of my cigarettes, appears at night to be the dim light of a computer screen, flickering its alternate and safe communications. If there is some form seated nearby, with the house shades drawn it is awfully difficult to discern it... more a ghost among other ghosts. A nucleus like a quiet grave.