In fact, when we moved here, I got a chalkboard and wrote “Faces” at the top and then listed the neighbors we met and described them. Lucy next door: slight stoop to the shoulders, hair has a pink tinge. Her husband, Raymond has big ears and wears his pants too high and was a dermatologist. They have a koi pond in their backyard and talk about it all the time. The Parkers down the block, originally from upstate New York, but if we have anything in common who would know, because they spend all their time golfing and visiting their kids, somewhere even farther south than where we are now. The Warrens, much younger than everyone else on the street and always offering to help, even when you had no idea you needed any.

Faces has helped us to remember all of their names and something about them. I wrote of the Parkers: “Fans of black hair dye and facial procedures.” And of Ron Todd, the divorced realtor who sold us this house in between various dental procedures he described in great detail, I wrote: “A man, a plan, a root canal.”

Remember all those palindromes you kids knew? I had made your father laugh, something that has become harder and harder to do; he used to always make jokes about his heart, about kicking the bucket, circling the drain, but those jokes have dwindled with all he has going on, and so any levity is good. I’m hoping to do some more palindromes, but in the meantime, he said I need to keep Faces hidden in the bedroom, in case any of our neighbors pop in, something we are finding people do around here a lot.

And I am not complaining, Becca, because you (and Ron Todd, of course) helped us find a great place to be, but I would be lying if I didn’t say that there are times when the heat and humidity is killing us, as is the constant chatter and hospitality and all that hugging. Oh my. Your father has done much better with that part than I have; he once lived here, after all, and has a greater tolerance for those who invade your personal space. I extend my hand and hope for the best. I avert my eyes if I sense a talker up ahead. Just the other day, a woman at the dry cleaners said to me, “The humility is just awful, ain’t it, sugar?” and I said, “Oh my God, yes. The humility is terrible these days.” And don’t even mention the tea, thick with sugar and God knows what; you can feel your arteries closing in resistance.