Right neighborly

The weather remains cloudy, incredibly humid, and quite warm: mid-60s. I was exceptionally busy writing and getting the house ready for my daughter-in-law and granddaughter's arrival in the late afternoon, so I didn't have a lot of walking time. What I was able to eke out took me to the area around the second waterfall, the one deep in the woods and the one, rumor has it, that was a favorite skinny-dipping hole. In nearly 30 years of living here, I've never seen any evidence of it, but the tales remain fairly persistent, so maybe someone bared all at least once. These days, I don't think it'll ever happen. Not only is the water too low—that might change, sooner or later—but the area appears to be owned by someone who is definitely not moved by the mantra of the National Trails folks in Great Britain: the trail-keepers who tell you that you can cross through private land; just close the gate behind you so the sheep don't escape. The hand-printed signs are a recent addition to the woods, and the hiker in me does not take kindly to such unneighborly admonitions. The editor in me is tempted to make the requisite spelling change.