It's the first Monday of September, which means it's Labor Day here in the good ole' U.S. of A. It also means the monthly testing of the town's tornado sirens.
At 10 a.m.
After a firetruck had been in our complex's parking lot until after 3 a.m.
And parked right outside our window.
With the lights flashing.
No, we weren't sure what was going on, and frankly, we didn't want to.
That's the problem with living in an apartment. Sometimes you end up with skeevy neighbors.
But it's also a symptom of modern life in rural America. The folks in this town with a living-wage job either work white-collar for THE MAJOR EMPOYER or blue-collar for the handful of decent factory jobs that are left. The rest try to make do with a combination of minimum wage jobs.
And that dramatic range shows in our neighbors.
Unless they're like DH and me and they work from home. Okay, maybe not like SH and me when the neighbors are selling drugs instead of fantasy books.
So I will continue nodding in a friendly way to the neighbors, and not ask too many questions of them.
And write my books.
On Labor Day.
On Not Writing
4 hours ago