One of my neighbors seems to have multiple homes in the area. Sometimes during the day, I'll spot him pedaling up the street and around the corner, where he'll lean his bicycle against a wooden post in the small carport next door. I have never seen him enter this house, and in the evenings I never see the lights on. Behind the carport sits a white garage, where throughout the week he'll park that bike, open the garage and get to work. For the next few hours, all of the noises coming from the garage are the same ones I heard in high school shop classes a thousand years ago. Around six in the evening, he'll close up the garage, hop back on the bike, and ride back to wherever he rests his head at night. With his grey tousled hair and wiry frame, I like to think he retired here from a northern state somewhere. Maybe he's a Vietnam veteran, like my father. He seems to be pals with another similar-looking fellow across the street from his garage. They'll sit outsi...