I love my neighborhood. In many ways, it’s like what we think neighborhoods were in the olden days (but probably really weren’t). <\/p>\n
I had an “olden days” moment yesterday. Not in the idyllic sense, but in the sense that anybody in the neighborhood can give a troublesome kid what-for and parents will back that up.<\/p>\n
I was sitting in the sun room, enjoying the respite after a day of painting and ripping down old siding when — whap! <\/i> — something thumped the wall next to me. <\/p>\n
I knew immediately what it was and who did it. Sure enough, I went outside and there was a baseball in the grass. Looked up and there he was, a tall, blond adolescent boy in the neighbors’ yard. The three boys who live there (all younger and smaller than this kid) were outside, too. But having had my house pelted several times last summer with hardballs, and having seen the tall, blond kid every time, I knew it wasn’t their doing. (They lob balls into my yard frequently, but never get near the house and nearly always use nerf or whiffle balls.)<\/p>\n
Without giving it a second thought, I stomped over to the fence, pointed, and called, “You! Blond kid!” And proceeded to give him a piece of my mind and a warning that if he broke a window, hurt an animal, or damaged my property in any way, he’d be in deep yogurt. Then I tossed the baseball over the fence and went home.<\/p>\n
A couple minutes later, the father of the three boys was at my gate, full of apologies and concern. <\/p>\n
“No, no. Your little boys are so sweet and polite,” I said. “You don’t need to apologize for anything. It’s that other kid. It’s almost as if he’s aiming at my house. He needs a good talking to from his parents.”<\/p>\n
“But I’m the dad,” my neighbor said, as if that explained everything that needed to be said about his responsibility.<\/p>\n
—–<\/p>\n
Later I got to feeling bad about raising a ruckus. Maybe I should have just gone over there and had a quiet talk with everybody. Maybe I should have gone to Dad and let him handle his guest.<\/p>\n
This morning I took the family a peace offering of apple pie (storebought, sorry) and ice cream. Dad was off on a volunteer fire call, but Mom and two of the boys were there. I assured the boys I wasn’t upset with them in any way. I apologized to Mom for the undiplomatic way I’d handled the situation and asked her to pass that on to her husband.<\/p>\n
She made it clear that she and Dad had had a very<\/i> serious talk with all the boys and that no peace offering was necessary. “That kid is a good boy,” she said. “But … they’re having some troubles right now.” Not excusing, just explaining.<\/p>\n
Only nerf and whiffle balls from now on, she assured me, taking the pie and ice cream that I finally had to force into her hands.<\/p>\n
I love this neighborhood.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I love my neighborhood. In many ways, it’s like what we think neighborhoods were in the olden days (but probably really weren’t). I had an “olden days” moment yesterday. Not in the idyllic sense, but in the sense that anybody in the neighborhood can give a troublesome kid what-for and parents will back that up. I was sitting in the sun room, enjoying the respite after a day of painting and ripping down old siding when — whap! — something thumped the wall next to me. I knew immediately what it was and who did it. Sure enough, I went…<\/p>\n