As kids, we grew up in a seemingly middle-class neighborhood. The families were mostly intact--from the heteronormative perspective. A mom, dad, kids--the American dream. We played outside until the streetlights came on--and everyone knew who's houses had the best snacks, etc. Most of us were around the same age, or within a few years of one another. There was kick the can, street hockey, and steal the bacon occurring regularly. But, there was one house, where my parents discouraged us to play--"Sally's kids" were primarily foster kids. My brother and I didn't really understand why we weren't supposed to hang around with them--but the message was received.
Fast forward 25 years. Now, it's my childhood home and my father that people avoid. The yard is overgrown and everyone "knows how he is" and why my brother and I do not come around often. Yet, with my mother's anniversary and my 40th birthday occurring a few weeks back--I felt compelled to check on the house, and in essence him. So, my partner and I did a drive-by, on my birthday.
The house looks as though it had been abandoned, with the lone inhabitant slowly giving in to his addiction and other ailments. To say that this shook me is an understatement. While I could not effectively articulate it at the time, I knew I could not simply leave things as they were. I reached out to a childhood friend who owns a landscape business in town and inquired as to whether he could clean up the yard and then maintain it. He agreed. However, after a few days--I went back myself.
After a few passes, my father, who currently looks like a 60s hippy with long hair and a headband, opened the door at one point and asked what brought me by. To which I looked around and said, "well, this" before he closed the door again. The grass was so long, that the mower kept stalling and eventually seized. The neighbors across the street, the first to call me when my father goes off the reservation, declined to let me borrow their mower to finish the job. So, I called a nearby friend, to see if he knew how to get the mower to restart. Instead, he came to my aide with his electric mower until that battery died. It was then, that a middle-aged man with a bum knee wandered down with his dog.
It was one of "Sally's kids". He offered to fix the mower and let me borrow his gas-powered weedwhacker to finish the yard. He is also going to continue to maintain the yard, as he also mows a few others in the neighborhood. His kindness, and all of the emotions that had been bottled up for the few weeks prior, came bubbling out once I returned home and could fall apart.
Those who live in glass houses, should not throw stones...
