The headlights of my
car shone on my husband, James, sitting in a lawn chair beneath one of the
large oak trees on the perimeter of our front yard. While it was not unusual
for James to sit out in the gardens, admiring the flowers and enjoying the air,
it was unusual to see him out there on a cool and misty late September
evening—too late, almost too dark, to see anything in the garden.
I parked and stepped out of the car, turning as James walked
toward me. With only a slight greeting, he took my arm and gently led me
to the edge of a nearby flowerbed.
My eyes soon adjusted to the waning light and I faced what he had
seen when he came home a few hours earlier: almost every single one of the lush
and lovely perennial plants in the entire front garden pulled out, lying there
on the ground, their roots exposed and their leaves withering. I could
not speak, tears came in my eyes. All I could manage was a small whimper. What
in the hell had happened?
James led me around to the back garden and I saw the same decimation. Dozens
and dozens of flowers and even small shrubs, all ripped out. Thousands of
dollars and thousands of hours of work, all that burgeoning beauty, yanked out
of the ground.
When it became too dark to examine any further, we walked into the house.
James poured us each a glass of wine. We began to speculate, trying to
figure out who would have done such a hateful thing.
James said he had seen the five, six and seven year old girls from
the house next door skitter across our driveway just as he came home at
4:00. He did not think much of that as the girls had skipped around in
our front yard at other times and once or twice we had a few brief but
enjoyable conversations with them.
The family moved in
to the house two years previous. During that time, we made a few attempts to be
neighborly with their mother, Jackie and stepfather, Jonas. They both
seemed guarded and tense—unwilling to communicate much beyond a nod.
At 2 a.m. just a month before, Jackie stumbled drunk, loud and
disoriented into our yard. The next day her mother came over to
apologize for Jackie’s behavior. She said her daughter was a clinically
depressed alcoholic, stemming from childhood sexual abuse (this was just a bit
more than I needed to know). I reacted with guarded sympathy, as I did not want
to become embroiled in the family’s personal problems
Several times over
the previous two years we observed the stepfather very drunk and we often heard
him shouting angry, hateful things at the girls. He and James had a
verbal run in or two concerning their barking dog and the garbage cans and
collection of old cars which often spilled onto our property.
A few days before this plant-pulling, the stepdad accused James of killing
their dog (that was the first I knew of the animal’s death). James
responded, “I didn’t kill your dog. I could have if I had wanted to, but I
didn’t.”
We truly did not want to believe it, but after much talking, James and I
both connected the destruction of our flower gardens to our next-door
neighbors. As difficult as it was to fathom, the three girls must have wreaked
the havoc in our gardens.
Even though my heart
ached when I thought of waking to the specter of all those lovely
plants lying on the ground, a deep sadness for three little children displaying
such frenzied anger tempered my pain. I willed myself to dwell on the next morning
and how I might handle the situation.
The new day arrived crisp and sunny. I called my office to say I would be
in after lunch, then I took my cup of coffee and walked around the front and
back yards to check on the state of the plants. As I did, I meditated on the
right way to approach the situation with our neighbors.
We knew the girls lived in a house with a dysfunctional mother and a
stepfather who was sullen and angry, drank too much and had a volatile
personality. This knowledge led us to imagine the girls lived with ongoing,
disturbing upheavals in the home.
Although never subjected to the dysfunctional home life these girls lived, I recalled the roiling, inner anger I felt during my childhood years ... always feeling
helpless and misunderstood and often acting out in untoward ways.
My childhood experiences were nothing approximating what I felt certain these little
girls endured. Yet I understood that an inner rage at injustices and the sense
of being powerless to change anything at all sometimes twists children to behave inappropriately.
I walked over to the girls’ house and spoke with their mother.
Without any trace of disbelief, Jackie acknowledged the girls probably did pull
the flowers. She said they thought James killed their small dog and were
sad and angry about that possibility; she then offered an apology for their
behavior. Just as she backed away from me and began to close the front
door, Jackie agreed to my request for the girls to come to the garden the
following day, Saturday.
I spent the rest of
the morning checking on the plants, determining which ones might survive
replanting and which ones might not make it. An inner healing took place as I
walked among those dearly-loved plants; any residual anger, any sadness and
pain left from the night before was replaced with a deep sense of empathy for
the helplessness and turmoil those children must be experiencing.
When I arrived home that evening, I found several notes of
differing sizes and shapes on the back porch. With a purple pen and colored
pencils, the girls wrote and drew pictures (all spelling is as written by the
girls):
Dear Nabers, Hi, how are you? I am so, so,
so, so, so sory after I mde a mess of yur yard. Wie I did it becuse you
guy yeld at us about the dog barking and some times the dog was not even
hear. Mom told me that you seid we can’t play in are own yard so sorry
we picked the flowers. Mom seid that you seid we can’t have are garbige
up at the top of the griveway and I am sorry I even went on your
properdy. Sorry agin I will do some work in your yard that you want me
to. From Naber Marin
Dear
Nabers I am sorry [picture with arrow pointing to “durt”]
From
Kailey
I am sorry Naber but We just got mad. Kailey
I am so [repeated 13 times] sory but I just got
mad.
Sisey will tell you wie…
Dear Nabers I am sorry From Blayke [with drawing]…
The next morning
Marin, Kailey and Blayke, knocked on our back door. Shortly after
greeting them, I told them how sad I felt when I heard their dog had been
killed―assuring them James did nothing to cause the death. The three of them
shifted back and forth, eyes down. In a heartbeat or two, Marin, the oldest,
looked up at me with a sweet half-smile and said they were ready to help with
the flowers.
The girls and I walked around the front and back yard. As we walked, I
told them of my love for flowers and how much they meant to me; the joy and
happiness I felt as they bloomed and grew. I listened when they commented and
answered when they asked questions. I showed them the hand tools and
demonstrated how to use them.
The girls worked close beside me--often asking the name as they picked
up a drooping plant and positioned it back in its spot. As we worked, I
talked about sunshine, rain, fertilizer and nature. Over the next three hours,
working side by side with me, I sensed those three little girls were absorbing
my words and I have no doubt they truly loved the type of attention they were
receiving. Happily, most of the uprooted, replanted perennials and shrubs survived.
I don't want to
sound as though I was feeling oh-so altruistic. Sad, hurt and angry, my initial
feelings were extremely self-centered. Yet, the morning after, when I
walked among the flowers, talking to them, touching them as they lay there with
their poor roots drying out, something clicked in my brain and my heart. A
bittersweet love for the little girls replaced the anger and hurt. I thought of
the compassionate care and grooming they would have to go through in order to
blossom into stable, healthy and loving young women.
At the end of
November 2003, we again received numerous drawings and notes from the
girls. One drawing from Kailey is very creative. Not simply because
of the three cute figures on the front, with birds and a worm, but because she
has written “Kodak” all over the back of the paper. The note from Kailey
says:
Hi
thanck U for the flowers I lik them. Thank you for thinking of use.
PS
December 17 is My Birthday. Kailey
In April of 2004 we
received another note, signed by all three girls (written by Marin, I
assume. Printing is very neat and spelling much better than the first):
Dear
neighbor,
Hi, How are
you? I am fine. Thanks for the fake flowers. We really like them. There
beautiful flowers, even though there fake. Here are some flowers for you.
We just wanted to give you a note to say Thanks
From,
Marin, Kailey and Blayke
P.
S. A poem just for you:
Roses
are red,
Vilets
are blue
And
here are some
flowers just for you.
I certainly do not recall giving them any fake flowers. I do remember
giving the girls’ mother some cut flowers from the garden. Oh well.
During the last two
years I lived at the house, our relationship with the girls continued to
be friendly, albeit wary. They would often come over to talk with James when he
was outside and they seemed to enjoy checking on the flowers.
In a few months, the mother delivered a baby boy, the father deserted and
Jackie began another downhill spiral. Twice during this period she fell through
the hedge between our back yards and arrived scratched, drunk and disoriented
on our rear doorstep
