This week is spring break for our local public school system. This means lots of working parents leave their teenagers at home alone in a practice run for what our summer will shake down like. If this week has been any taste, I will spend the summer asking our local, entitled, middle-class, white teens why they are in my yard or in my horse pasture. Can hardly wait. Not.
Sunday afternoon we came home from my cousin’s house. I thought I saw a bird fly into the Rock House. Mark assured me that no, it was people. Indeed. Two teenaged girls who appeared to be a bit stunned that we approached them at all, much less that we were a little put out that they felt free to come into our yard without permission and sit in our, or rather my grandfather’s, version of a gazebo. They were polite and they left and assured us they would not come back without asking permission.
Next day? Martina and I were doing school work on the covered bridge and here came the same two girls with a passel of younguns. They blithely trooped right through my niece’s front yard and started down the hill to the dam which separates my niece’s front yard from my back yard. Then the dogs went after them and they stopped, caught in the act, mouths hanging open. I asked them if they had permission to be in Billinda’s yard. Nothing. I told them that if they were headed somewhere on our side of the marsh, crossing private property without permission was a bad plan and that it also took them several blocks out of their way. I did all of this more firmly than I had the day before but without moving, so as to not create hostile or threatening body language. I did not yell, curse or shout but spoke with resolution and authority. In my mind I kept thinking of the little kids these girls had with them and wondering who had trusted their babies to the care of such wobbly personalities.
Eventually they told me that they know my niece and have her permission to go into her yard. They then proceeded to call me (and don’t read this if you don’t like cussing): a fucking piece of shit cunt. Then they took their passel of 5/6/7 year olds and walked off. My niece does not know them. I asked. Oddly enough, I also asked the girls where they lived when we found them in the Rock House. So.
Yesterday evening Mark and I were preparing to leave for a date. I went to grab my purse and saw 5 people who I don’t know walking through my rosemary and lavender, just about 15′ outside my kitchen door. Again, one of them was a teenaged girl. Not one of the ones from the Rock House and probably a bit older but nevertheless, she was the one leading these folks through my herbs and my back yard.
Now, pardon the fuck out of me but if I wanted to live in a communal situation I would. And would live there with people who have some respect for other people not with entitled acting punks who are likely to key my van or break a window because I act shocked when they show up in my back yard. When I see strangers who have obviously just walked down my driveway which runs about 3′ outside of my bedroom window and into my back yard act as if they are surprised this isn’t a public area, I don’t know what to say. Back in the day I would have ripped them a new one, verbally and perhaps physically. Now I really would like to spread some goodwill and not do the Run ‘Em Off At Gunpoint routine. It’s beginning to seem impossible though.
Really. There are some people who come and knock on our front door and ask permission and we have, thus far, always said yes. We’re not mean or selfish but we are private and we don’t like having strangers wandering around in our yard. It’s really beginning to get on my nerves.