Connie Tucker squinted through the blinds as a small, beat-up car pulled into the driveway next door. A new neighbor stepped out, clutching to a foil-covered dish.

Few minutes later, there’s a knock and this young new neighbor is holding out banana bread like it’s gold. I give it a sniff, hoping for bourbon— just cinnamon. Shame.

“I’m Connie,” I tell her with a nod. “Welcome to the neighborhood, sweetheart. If you hear yelling, it’s probably my family. Or me yelling at ’em”