I have to thank the hobos.

To be clear, I do not take that term lightly and I do not use it jokingly – these are people who have chosen to live off the land in a vagabond way. The people in this particular conversation are not hard luck homeless cases who need our help and support to get off the street. How do I know? Because I talk to them. Some are lovely and interesting and others are freakin’ weird – just like real life.

We’ve lived in our old house for many years. We love our little street and our fantastic neighbors. It’s likely we would’ve stayed here if the Super Bowl™ hadn’t come to town. It’s my hunch the city encouraged a hobo community to move off the side of the highway, where they were very visible to visiting dignitaries, to a not so visible 160 acre park near us.

It was sort of fun at first as we developed a game called “Hobo or Neighbor?” It’s more difficult than you might expect. One glance at me in my lawn tending gear and you’ll understand.

Then the fun and games ended when our 80-year-old neighbor broke the news that he found a hobo prostitute servicing two gentlemen callers (at the same time!) in the alley behind our house in the middle of the afternoon.

Do what you want with your body – that’s not my business, but please don’t do it in my backyard. Plus it’s not much of a stretch to imagine drugs might be involved in that sort of activity.

The thought of hobo drug sex behind our fence fueled an all night internet search for a new place to live. That’s how we found this magical spot.

Nestled in an eclectic mid-to-late last century neighborhood with huge trees, a winding road, and serious hills this little parcel contains a spring filled with mosquito-eating minnows and crystal clear, ice cold water.

Now we’re on a very serious adventure to build a house from scratch on an oddly shaped, magical plot of land.

Thank you, hobos.