It started out as any other walk with my terrier, Libby. A balmy, early spring day, we took our usual stroll down our driveway, along the main road, and then a quick right onto the quiet, dead-end street next door. That’s when I saw it, or I should say them. The sight assaulted my eyes, and I couldn’t believe what I saw.
All along a stretch of green grass, before a beautiful pond full of lilies and reeds, were three identical signs: “Do Not Trespass!” all printed in angry red letters. In all my years of living in this small Connecticut town, I’d never seen anything like it.
Who are they talking to? I wondered. Did we have marauding gangs of hoodlums, trying to syphon off pond water and rip out bunches of cattails? Had there been attempts to kidnap the gray heron who sometimes appeared, or the many bullfrogs croaking on a summer night? How long was I allowed to gaze at this scene without being arrested?
It was such a shock to the senses; it made me sad. No other house in our town ever had such messages so prominently displayed. Was nothing sacred and beautiful and peaceful anymore? Did everything come down to aggression and battlelines?
I never saw the new people who owned the pond and the house next to it. Sometimes an SUV would leave their driveway and I’d try and get a glimpse. I’d see someone behind the wheel, not waving back and unsmiling. I almost felt sorry for them, going through life with such a grim take on their fellow man. I couldn’t help wondering: what had caused such paranoia?
The good news was that they moved out after a year. Then something wonderful happened.
Another family moved in. They were young, a blond-haired man, his wife, and two middle-school aged kids. Although they seemed shy at first, they soon warmed up and waved when they saw me and Libby strolling up the street. Even better? The “No Trespassing” signs were removed.
Then came the true miracle.
Libby and I turned the corner one day and there it was. A little black wrought-iron bench sat under a shady tree in front of the pond. Next to it was a miniature, free lending library. Of course, I had to peek. Most of the books were for middle-schoolers, but I still couldn’t believe my eyes.
While one neighbor’s instinct was to prevent people from sharing nature in an angry, threatening way, this other neighbor was saying, “Welcome! Sit under this beautiful tree and have a good read. Enjoy the pond!”
I’ll never forget this, somehow a fitting statement on our world today, about people and their values. I’m grateful for these quiet neighbors, who have been here now almost five years. They still have their little bench and miniature library. The other day I noticed the bench had fallen in a strong wind, and I righted it, grateful for these people’s kindness and generosity. They seem to understand the world in ways those other neighbors never will.
Funny how actions say so much about us, even when it comes to a little pond.
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