At first, we whispered about him. Does he know his music shakes my coffee cup? Is that a karaoke machine or a construction site?
And we went. Every single one of us.
So here’s to the Cherokees of the world: the loud ones, the early risers, the harmonica players at dusk. They’re not breaking the peace. They’re keeping it from going silent.
But here’s the twist: Cherokee isn’t loud because he’s rude. He’s loud because he’s present .
Every neighborhood has one: the resident who doesn’t just live on the block, but fills it. For us, that’s Cherokee.
Cherokee doesn’t just walk down the street — he announces himself. His voice booms before his shadow appears. “GOOD MORNING, WORLD!” he yells at 7 a.m., whether you’re ready or not. His screen door doesn’t close; it salutes the frame with a bang. His lawnmower isn’t a tool; it’s a one-engine band, serenading the cul-de-sac every Saturday at dawn.
Here’s a short, interesting piece on “Cherokee the Noisy Neighbor” — written as a creative, slightly humorous character sketch.
We just needed to turn up our welcome.