When weather permits, Ole Jerry must spend at least a third of his waking hours planted in a chair on his porch. He has two chairs on his porch, but he only ever uses the one closest to his front door. He sits there in silence, day after day, utterly unoccupied for hours on end, always wearing the same light-blue denim button-up and black velcro sneakers, gazing across the street into a strip of Wissahickon Valley woods barely thick enough to conceal the traffic humming along Lincoln Drive across the creek. So far as I can tell, he has no wife, no family, no friends who come to visit, no pets of any sort. His truck is always —
My Neighbor Jerry
My Neighbor Jerry
My Neighbor Jerry
When weather permits, Ole Jerry must spend at least a third of his waking hours planted in a chair on his porch. He has two chairs on his porch, but he only ever uses the one closest to his front door. He sits there in silence, day after day, utterly unoccupied for hours on end, always wearing the same light-blue denim button-up and black velcro sneakers, gazing across the street into a strip of Wissahickon Valley woods barely thick enough to conceal the traffic humming along Lincoln Drive across the creek. So far as I can tell, he has no wife, no family, no friends who come to visit, no pets of any sort. His truck is always —