Love thy neighbor (but lock thy door)

A few weeks ago, Father Don, down the street, took his dog out for their daily first-thing walk. When they got back, they met someone bolting out the vicarage door. The man was carrying Don's laptop, as well as some of his priestly jewelry. (Espiscopal priests don't take vows of poverty; still, it was apparently only a few hundred dollars' worth.)

The other morning on the porch I saw Don and dog going by and called out to commiserate about the loss.

"It's OK," he chuckled. "They got [him, in accordance with the old Watergate cleanup rules]. The cops knew who he was, and when they got the chance to pat him down he was dumb enough to still have the chains in his pocket." He laughed, and moved on as the dawn patrol of garbage trucks moved in.

I hate to admit it, but that has changed the way I live: I now keep doors locked when I'm here alone, even those behind the gates.

Like the tides here, petty crime rises and falls, and in this small an island "the usual suspects" really are the usual suspects.

Our town at the literal end of the road has always had its losers, screw-ups and blowouts, and there's no better place to understand that than the daily roster of mug shots from the county sheriff's office. It's required reading for those of us who sometimes wallow in schadenfreude. ("Oh, look! There's. . . .") These souls are all innocent until trial, of course, and most of the pickups are probation violations ("Come on vacation, leave on probation. . . ."), but the occasional gold-painted mime busted on a charge of selling weed at Mallory Square does catch the attention.

And it does seem clear, from these pictures out of the last few months, that almost no one arrested is having a good hair day.