Welcome to my neighborhood

Hello my name is Harold Penby. My wife, April, and I recently moved into a new neighborhood. We moved from an apartment in the city to a little town, in reality a suburb of the city. The town is called Alum. Alum is one of those fast-growing, everything-new communities with lots of cement. Every neighborhood has little lakes of various shapes and sizes, bordered with rich green grass, cement paths and twenty-foot trees of a variety that will grow no taller in order to keep everything new. The houses are like a four-letter alphabet: an A, a B, a C and a D and then they start back at A. Lawns are green well edged mowed in angled patterns, then horizontal then vertical to keep each blade of equal height. Sprinklers are sprinkling regularly, with much debate over morning or evening watering being the proper time. At present, morning is the neighborhood association's recommendation, as stated by Art Frankle, the head of the association. Mail carriers drive up and down each side of the streets, never having to leave their vehicles as they slide mail into mailboxes built into red brick curved top pillars set three feet to the facing left of each driveway.

Never having owned a lawnmower. I was excited on the Saturday morning I brought home my first lawn mower. It was with an almost childish glee I inserted the key and pushed the button to start my mower. I was halfway done with my front yard when an unfamiliar car pulled up in front of my house, and I was soon greeted by Art Frankle, who introduced himself as the president of the neighborhood association and welcomed me to the neighborhood. pleasant get acquainted chat followed and as it was winding down, he said “Just to keep you up to date on things our association recommends you use gas powered lawn equipment, you know this is an oil and gas state and one way or the other most of us earn our living because of it. Oh, and I might as well let you know this week was the week we all cut our grass vertically, not horizontally.” With that, Art said, nice to meet you and left. After that, I thought I’ll be damned if I am going to take this lawn mower back, but after my anger subsided, I said well, I can at least try to fit in, I can easily start over and mow the yard vertically.

Art was proud of himself when at the dinner table that evening with his wife and 14-year-old son he mentioned his greeting the new residents at the house a couple streets over and stated that he had introduced him to two association standards. Both his wife and son Brad were used to these pronouncements as they occurred with all new residents. Art and Sandra had moved into the neighborhood from an older, poorer neighborhood out of state. Both felt comforted and relaxed entering and living where they did now and wanted to keep it that way.

It had become a dinner time ritual at the Frankle house akin to the evening news when after grace was said Art would describe any variants in the outward appearance of the homes in the neighborhood as he followed an ever-changing circuitous route home to provide the latest update to his family. Brad, having listened to these updates from the time he was out of a high chair, couldn’t help but bring his own comments to the table as he gathered them from his playtime in the neighborhood which expanded farther and farther afield as he grew older.

This particular evening, Brad started the evening news with, “Dad, I walked over to those new people’s house today, and I noticed that the new guy must have gone back over his lawn and mowed it the proper way. “See, son, if you let people know what’s right, they will do it.” “But Dad, I noticed they must have put up new house numbers because theirs were big and real fancy; you sure can’t miss seeing them.” A slight reddening colored Art’s face, starting above his eyes and beginning to move towards his cheeks, when with a force of will he calmed himself down and managed to congratulate his son on his report and praised him for pointing out the house number.

That same evening, April and I sat around our kitchen table set in a little alcove with views of the fountain in the neighborhood lake a hundred feet behind us. It was a great feeling to own our first house. Prior to signing the contract, we had decided that decisions about changes to the inside and outside of the house would have to be a joint decision but that, in general, I would concern myself with the exterior and she with the interior. But it soon became obvious that the, in general, was an important clause in our verbal contract, because as soon as April had seen those new house numbers she had said, "We have to put those up." But we agreed on…… did not hold up. So now we have new house numbers. After dinner we continued lounging at the kitchen table, not allowing ourselves to admit how uncomfortable our chairs were, as we happily tossed around all our ideas for future additions, subtractions and changes to our first house.

That evening, Art called a special meeting of the neighborhood association for the following Monday to discuss the new people's house numbers. The board was made up solely of first-generation homeowners, all had purchased their homes before or soon after they were built. At that meeting it was unanimously decided that a letter on board letterhead be sent to the Penby’s informing them of the boards displeasure with their changing of house numbers and that the board would be very pleased if they were to remove them and reinstall the old ones. The board had magnanimously offered to reimburse them for the new numbers.

Upon receiving the letter, I thought it humorous as it was so preposterous. I showed it to April, and she cried out, “Are they friggin out of their minds?” “No one is touching those numbers.” Deciding it best not to mention my true feelings on the aesthetics of those numerals, I said I would contact a lawyer in the morning and find just what rights our neighborhood association held. The next morning, I called April with the news that “our neighborhood association” had absolutely no legal rights or authority.

When no response came from the Penbys, Art was incensed. In the past, homeowners had at least answered the board's letter; most had, for the sake of what Art called neighborliness, “towed the line,” as he thought of it.

Sitting on the cement pad that served as the base for my little grill and a small backyard set purchased from Walmart, I admired the freshly cut backyard grass cut in the opposite direction of all the front yards I drove by on the way home. Making a mental note to find out if many of our neighbors were in the closet, so to speak, with what direction they actually mowed their backyards, I couldn’t help but chuckle. And it was then that two ideas popped into my head. One I’ll save for later, but the other I’ll share now. Looking at our beautiful fenced-in backyard, I couldn’t help but think it was calling for a dog to christen it properly and wear paths up and down one fence line. Two weeks later we brought home an 11-week-old Golden called Samantha, Sam for short. And I learned how to install a dog door.

Admittedly Sam kept us busy and out of trouble for a while but six months later, with Sam house trained and myself following protocol for front yard lawn mowing, April still seethed over being requested to change house numbers (two follow-up letters had been received). By the way, I found out that most everyone in the neighborhood who did not know or associate with board members mowed their back yards as they pleased. She just wouldn’t let it go and was determined to showcase her independence. Driving around all the streets of the neighborhood, April had seen no variation in flower beds; they all followed graceful curved lines in front of the foundations as her own did, with very few variables in the shrubs and flowers. “I want a large circular flowerbed smack dab in the center of our front yard,” April stated as she entered the house after her drive about. Sitting down beside me, the word circular reincarnated the second idea I had had when I thought about the need to get Sam. After that Art guy had informed me of the proper directions in which to mow my lawn I had googled unusual methods of mowing, and the one I thought looked great was where you mow in concentric circles, and it was best done by starting at a center point such as a tree or flower bed. Finally, I answered April, saying. “Great minds, let’s do it.”

This would be the first fall in our home. Weather-wise, October weather-wise was perfect for strenuous outdoor work. The days were a clear ocean blue with small dainty clouds drifting by, with temperatures in the high 70s to low 80s. April, a math teacher at a nearby high school, staked out the exact center of our front yard. We outlined a perfect circle using a garden hose and yellow paint. FYI, it’s a suitable method unless you don’t want a yellow hose. After removing the sod and extant runners and roots, we turned the soil, mixing in bags of compost purchased that morning at our local Ace Hardware. The last step was to install a flexible aluminum edging to separate the grass from the bed. I had wanted to install a brick edging, but April insisted she wanted the flowers she was going to plant to be the focal point, not bricks that matched our house. In answer as to what she was going to plant, April said only, Oh, I want to surprise you; you’ll see next spring. The circular bed we had created was 12 feet in diameter, which April assured me was a mathematically perfect fit for the square footage of our front yard.

Two days later, our house was egged. At which point I suggested to April that we drop the “In general, clause” for just a moment while I purchase several security cameras, exterior and interior.

Art had not told his son to get with his friend Toby and throw eggs that Friday evening, however at dinner the next day he did mention that he had heard of it being done and with a wink at Brad said maybe that will teach them to quit being different from the rest of us.

Spring came, and some of the neighborhood was aghast at the wildflowers popping up smack dab in the center of the Penby’s yard. Different colors, varying heights, some weedy looking things, you couldn’t even see the edging. Were they going to take over the whole yard? Were they going to blow seeds into their own yard?

An emergency meeting of the association was called; the meeting was held at the Frankle’s house with Sandra and Brad present. Each had requested to voice their opinion, and they did so loud and clear. Something had to be done, and done soon.

Carl one of the more live and let live types on the board was worried about wildflower seeds infiltrating his lawn, he was only six houses away and was quite concerned, he was already reading “what to do if wild flowers invade your yard” by Ralph Arbuckle a noted botanist. Jeremy, another one of the original homeowners, said At least, those things need to be pulled up and something else planted. “What needs to be done is those things pulled up and grass replanted,” shouted Art. They all knew that they had no authority. With a flash of enthusiasm, Sandra stood up and spoke. “Why don’t we just get ourselves some?” Surprised and ashamed that a housewife had to be the one to come up with such an authority-giving idea, they all became as enthusiastic as Sandra and jumped on the bandwagon. Plans were made, committees established, assignments handed out. Then Brad stood up and said “But what about now” Art spoke up and said “He’s right what about now, we need to at least send them a letter requesting them to remove those eyesores and replant grass, maybe a threat of an HOA would motivate them.” Brad sat motionless and quiet, knowing that his dad would approve of what he was going to do.

The meeting was adjourned, and Brad went to spend the night with Toby for a quickly planned sleepover. Toby and Brad outsmarted Harold Penby’s security system, even though they didn’t know it existed. It was common knowledge that to avoid being identified all you had to do was wear all black, including a balaclava. You couldn’t be alive and not know that.

The next morning, I was very pissed when I saw the destruction of our beautiful wildflowers, and discouraged that the only thing I could say about the culprits was that they weren’t very tall. Beyond that, I knew nothing. I reported the vandalism to the police, but they knew of nothing we could do and suggested it would be useless for them to come out, but that for future reference we might send photos to go along with the phone report.

Sandra and the rest of the Association board were disheartened when they found out that in their state, they would have to have 100% participation of homeowners to form an HOA. One minor victory they gained from their inquiries was that they could form a smaller HOA that would include all the neighborhood board association members.

It was spring. The now-deceased wildflowers were stashed in our newly purchased compost drum, which later I would learn might not have been such a wise idea as things started growing in the drum. April vowed to plant all the same wildflowers, and I planned to position barbed wire throughout the circular bed to punish anyone attempting to pull out the flowers next spring. April suggested that such might not be legal, and after checking, she proved correct.

I started the concentric mowing and was thrilled with its appearance. Evidently, my neighbors liked it also, as they would stop by and mention how cool it looked. They didn’t, however, mention anything about the missing wildflowers.

Art was despondent. What good was a small HOA if that oddity was still living anywhere nearby? His dinnertime newscast became a boring recounting of old news, people that had let their grass grow taller that six inches, people that had left two cars out of the garage at night (if you had two cars one was supposed to be in the garage. Not parked in front of it.) One homeowner had even parked his car on the grass to wax it. “That never happened again, did it?” he stated with a half-smile. Art never seemed to really smile anymore.

Brad was disheartened. His dad had tried at the dinner table to make it sound like they were winning, but he really sounded defeated. Brad felt defeated himself, how could he let the Pendrys do the things they did to their neighborhood? Dad hadn’t even heard that Pendry had mowed his yard in circles. He would die if he saw that. It just wasn’t right; he wouldn’t doubt that something in the Bible was against such an act.

That evening, Art received a call from Jeremy, who asked Art if he had seen Penby’s yard. “What about it?” “He mowed it in concentric circles tomorrow when its light go see it." Replying, Art said. “I’ll do better than that.” And then hung up.

Knocking on his son’s door and hearing a small sounding “come in,” Art entered and immediately noticed an anger mixed with sadness around his boy. “What’s the matter?” “I didn’t tell you, Dad, but Pendry mowed his lawn in circles this week!” “I know, son, Jeremy just told me” “Dad, isn’t there something we can do?” “You have told me forever that we have to protect our neighborhood, that people that come in and have different ideas about how yards, and houses should look are dangerous, because if they want to change things on the outside, there was no-telling what they may do inside the house” “I know son I said that. Before you were born your mom and I lived in a neighborhood that, when we left, every house ended up looking different. It didn’t start that way, though. What happened was that one guy next to us painted his house a light green, which wasn’t so bad, but then the lady on the other side painted her house yellow, before we knew it, we were a white house in the middle of the block with house of every color of the rainbow, on both side of the street.” “Geeze dad I didn’t know that. Wouldn’t that be awful if that happened here?” “Yes, it would. I’ve heard of people in some places painting brick houses; it could happen next door.” “So, we need to stop Pendry, don’t we, Dad?” “Anytime Pendry does something that is not the way everybody else does it, we need to make sure that he knows it isn’t appreciated”

After darkness had settled in, two darkened figures once again surreptitiously and with caution appeared on Pendry’s lawn. Armed with a can of spray paint, they went to work. One figure finished quickly and urged their companion to finish and make a getaway. The second figure whispered It doesn’t work, and joined his partner in flight.

It had become April, and my custom on weekend mornings to sit on our small front porch and have our morning coffee. Upon settling in, I lifted my cup in readiness for the morning's first sip, when I noticed what appeared to my morning-blurry eyes to be a 09 painted on our lawn near the curb. April smiled and said, “Go where? Do you think?” Oh, that’s not 09; it's Go, I realized.

I am still not sure whether it was out of spite or it was a genuine desire on my part, but that morning I approached April (I do that now) with the idea of painting all our house trim. Saying It currently matches the trim on every other house type D, and I really think House type B trim paint color would go better. April said, “that’s a great idea. I also like house type B’s trim color.”

April and I spent two weekends and several evenings preparing and painting the fascia and soffits, the wood siding on the front porch, and all the brickmould used at the windows. We were lucky and could match House trim type B when we asked a neighbor if they knew the name of the trim color on their home; they had saved an empty can of the original paint for just that purpose.

“Any news tonight” Art asked Brad at dinner. “They got the side window trim painted this weekend, but that was it.” “How much more do they have” “Just the back windows” Art sighed and gave Sandra a concerned look, saying “it’s time they get reminded again that what they are doing is wrong, you guys have any ideas” “I have one we might try, said Sandra.”

April and I were shocked when we received a written invitation to a barbecue at the Frankle’s for Saturday evening. We were sure that somehow or other Art Frankel had been behind the bit of mischief in our yard. Knowing that there was little to be done about it. We assumed they would soon give up and accept our minor changes. We knew they had no legal ground to stand on. Maybe this was an attempt at reconciliation or maybe an effort at persuasion. The only way we would ever know would be by accepting the invitation. It turned out to be an effort at persuasion. There were six couples, including the Frankels, plus April and I sitting or standing on an expansive backyard deck. It was a pleasant fall evening with a non-threatening light gray cloud cover and slight breeze. Hamburgers, hot dogs and sausage off the grill with plenty of beer and soft drinks. We were definitely there to persuade us. Each couple we met shared stories of previous housing areas they had lived in. We heard stories of cars permanently parked in yards, grass over the 12” limit, that the city allowed. Weird color houses, not to mention weird people. They all were so happy to get out of those type neighborhoods and live in such a congruous neighborhood. Two couples even said. “You can do most anything you want in your own backyard, look at this beautiful deck.”

On the walk home we passed by the A, B, C and D type houses, all with the appropriate color trim, similar flower beds, and plantings. The Groundhog Day effect could be pleasant, it must have been when we chose to live here—but now it seemed tiresome, even boring.

“Should we give in and be proper D’s said April? 'Let’s sleep on it,” and we did. The morning after the barbecue, we were having our morning coffee when April exclaimed, “I’ve got it, the mailbox!” “ehh Okay the mailbox” I replied. I hadn’t the foggiest idea what she was talking about, but was pretty sure it was something that the neighborhood mob wouldn’t enjoy.

Harold and April had been the first to leave the evening before, giving everyone the opportunity to voice their thoughts on the efficacy of their efforts to influence them. The consensus was maybe. The question was answered the following Saturday when Brad ran in the side door hollering “They tore it down, their mailbox it’s just gone, we have to do something!” Unbeknownst to Brad Art and Sandra had given up, they knew they had no legal recourse, one answer would be to form their own little HOA and have a small enclave in the middle of a declining neighborhood. A neighborhood they would have to drive through to get home every day. They just couldn’t do that, so they had begun looking for a new neighborhood, maybe a more expensive one with an HOA already in place. Gathering around the kitchen table, Art broke the news to Brad.

“No, dad we can’t give up, what they are doing is just wrong, they shouldn’t be allowed to change things like that.” “We agree son but we can’t change the law, everything they are doing is legal and we have tried everything we know to influence those people.” Brad yelled “what about Toby, He’s my best friend, I’ve known him forever I can’t leave him. And with that, he ran out the back door.

When next the Frankel’s drove by The Pendry’s house they saw sitting on the same square cement slab that had supported the red brick pillar mailbox a replica of an old-time street corner post box, painted in trim matching color, with dainty roses poking their heads out from pretty green leaves.

Ever since moving in, we have been busy most weekends at home and occasionally at work and felt we needed a break from working around the house every weekend. No one had said a word, spray-painted our grass or torn any flowers up since we had installed “The Mailbox.” So it was with pleasure that, for the first time since moving into our first home, we planned a weekend away. The only obstacle was Samantha, our Golden. The hotel they were booked into did not accept pets, and to be honest we did not want to take her, anyway. At almost two years of age, she was well trained, had a fenced-in backyard to play in, and a dog door to come in and out of the house. She would probably be fine by herself; we would leave plenty of food and water, but probably didn’t sit well with either of us. We needed someone to check in on her.

On our evening walks with Sam, we stuck to the same streets, allowing Sam to leave her scent as we went, hoping that if she ever ran away, she would easily find her way home. It was when she was less that 4 months old that she met Toby, a skinny, freckle-faced redhead who immediately bonded with Sam. It was soon clear that Toby looked forward to our evening walks as much as we did. We were very regular in the timing, so it was easy for Toby to always be out in his yard when we came by. Both the boy and dog enjoyed the few minutes of play our walks afforded them. Occasionally, one of Toby’s parents would be out of the house, and we had the opportunity to become acquainted. All we needed was for someone to check on Sam once Friday evening, morning, afternoon and night; Saturday and morning and early afternoon Sunday. Toby was our only comfortable possibility; if not that, it would be a kennel. Toby readily, with parents’ consent, accepted our offer and followed us the short distance home so we could show him where everything was and leave him our numbers.

Toby knew very well where the Pendry house was, but had never let on to his best friend Brad. The night he had told Brad that his spray can didn’t work, he had been lying. He just couldn’t push the button down. He liked the Pendry’s he couldn’t do that to Sam.

After explaining everything to Toby, I told him I wasn’t particular about the exact time in the morning or afternoon that he checked in on Samantha but I would like him to check in briefly just after dark in the evening, because she got nervous when it first got dark and sometimes would go outside and bark and I did not want the neighbors to complain.

Brad had run out the back door after being told they were going to move and sat out of sight of windows on an interior corner of the deck. Thinking, "My parents gave up, after all they said about how horrible it was that those people were different front everyone else, how it just wasn’t right, it wasn’t the ways are done. Dad said he wouldn’t stand for it; he would change them or run them out. Now he is running out." Sitting sullenly, he plotted his course.

Toby couldn’t wait for Friday evening; his parents had told him to come home as soon as he got Samantha settled in for the night. What actually occurred was that Toby and Samantha were having such fun that Toby forgot his mother's instructions and had to be reminded by a phone call to come home.

Art Frankle liked to buy in bulk, so he visited Costco frequently and, as a result, had pantries and garage shelving full to overflowing. Art also loved to barbecue and never wanted to be without lighter fluid. Saturday evening, Brad locked his bedroom door and snuck out his bedroom window. He had been disappointed when, in calling Toby’s house, his mother had told him Toby was unavailable.

Quietly entering the exterior door to the garage door he had unlocked earlier, Toby grabbed pints of charcoal light fluid and motor oil, filling his backpack. Rearranging the charcoal fluid and oil on the shelves so the missing fluids wouldn’t be soon missed, he hefted the pack onto his shoulders and, pushing the button in on the door to lock it, he left on his mission.

On Saturday evening, Toby and Sam wore themselves out playing tug of war, chase the ball and bouncy ball. So much so that an almost 16-year-old Toby, who had gotten up unusually early that Saturday morning, sat down on the overstuffed and very comfortable couch joined by Sam who snuggled her way underneath his arms to properly position Toby’s hand for the soon to occur repetitive and soothing to both finger grooming.

Brad's plan was to burn the house down. He didn’t care about the Pendrys. Maybe they would get out; maybe they wouldn’t. He figured they must have fire alarms. One way or the other, this would send a message to them and everyone else. Even if no one knew it , he would be a hero. His plan was to squirt charcoal fluid and oil anywhere he saw wood on the house’s exterior. Literally running and squirting, he stopped only to retrieve a fresh bottle and once at a small rack of firewood, which he doused thoroughly. By the time he was around the house, every piece of wood or composite was doused. Brickmoulds, garage doors, porch siding and pillars. The second time around the home, he lit fluid in a couple of spots on each side of the house.

Both Toby and Samantha had dozed off, with Toby’s arm around Sam and his hand comfortably sloping down her right side as her snout rested comfortably on his chest. Toby’s mother, ever vigilant, noticed the time and was about to call when her husband said, "Let the boy stay a little longer; you know how he loves that dog."

Brad had just snuck back into his room and bed, having first dabbed cologne all over his body and clothing and hoping to take a shower early in the morning, when he heard the sirens. Brad fell asleep with a smile on his face. His dad would be proud when in the future he told him.

The small rack of wood on one side of the Pendry’s house was, by happenstance, placed just below the HVAC system intake vent, which brings fresh air into the home. In this instance, it brought an immense amount of smoke from burning wood and finally oil. The house had smoke alarms in the bedrooms and kitchen as required but not in the back room used as a TV room. The wood by the side of the house was used for a freestanding fire pit owned by the previous owner, who took the pit but left the wood.

Carrying Sam in his arms, Toby, disoriented and forgetting drop and crawl, made it to the back door he had locked earlier. This door had a three-point locking system with a head bolt, foot bolt and deadbolt. The head bolt and deadbolt were unlocked, but not the foot bolt when the firefighter found Toby with Sam still in his arms lying on the floor with one hand reaching for the foot bolt.

The End