As I sat in my neighborhood association meeting, knitting as I usually do, listening to the cast of characters, I thought, if I were a novelist these meetings and the conversations that surely happen once they are over would make excellent fodder.
We have the president who has been serving for a decade tirelessly, though tired. She is a mom of four, a landlord of over a dozen rental properties and works at least 20 hours a week in an unpaid position serving her community.
The treasurer who holds the same position for his church as he works as an archivist on the national level; he is married to a lovely woman who writes house histories and who owes her health, in part, to a neighbor who has since moved away after donating his kidney to her.
The older gentleman who is deeply concerned that there someone is pulling something over on us at every turn.
The young couple who just moved here: she is heading up the defunct newsletter and he is now the recording secretary. They an energetic pair who have dove right into the neighbor with vigor.
Traditionally we have had a Christmas Tour. I say traditionally like it's been going on for decades, I have no idea it has been happening. Anyway for a set of reasons publicized, and I am betting a host of reasons only talked about on cell phones and private emails exist as well. Or that's my latent writer imagining a plot line that ties people with historic disagreements and broken friendships and deep connections that resurface sideways.
Ah, if only I had the attention span to write a novel.