published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend on Friday, March 4, 2011
This is the final part of a three-part series of columns.
My teenaged son, whom we shall call “Fred,” had offended a neighbor lady up the street while walking his dog. The neighbor had followed up with a visit to our home to complain of “Fred’s” behavior. We coaxed and reproved Fred and then, by the magic of online money transfers, subtracted $25 from Fred’s account. He was then, quite literally, driven out of the house (by car), to purchase and deliver flowers, candy, and a card for the neighbor. Rejoin this column as Fred is writing in the card.
We sat in our semi-darkened car as he filled the blank card with words. I was not going to allow this to be one of those situations where we have all the best intentions to “do it later” and then promptly forget to follow through. (Have I yet written to the ladies of the Christian Women’s Club of Warrenton and Zoar Baptist Church who sent us $200 at Thanksgiving, knowing that my husband, formerly the sole breadwinner – despite my recent contributions as a crumb-collector of sorts – was hospitalized? If my plans and actions would ever align, I might have less need to be ashamed of myself. Carrying this burden about mars one’s ability to lecture others, especially one’s children.)
Though it was cold, he sat and wrote. His words were neither contrived nor produced under duress. They were sincere, if a little stiff. You see, Fred is obstinate. He refuses to concede any point when he is convinced he is right. The problem with Fred, as with most of us, is that he always seems to be right about almost everything. (Or so he thinks.)
My son’s face stiffens when he believes you are talking some rubbish. He and his face don’t mind conveying this sentiment, either. That must have been the face that he gave our neighbor: impassive, but seething within. His lips are set and his eyes are squinted and hardened. You aren’t going to get past that steel façade easily.
If you do, though, he has an incredibly winning smile. When things go well, or he finally admits to mischief, he has the most handsome and infectious smile. He refuses to oblige you with a fake smile, so if you get one, it is genuine and rewarding.
So Fred wrote from his semi-steel heart. I don’t have his words verbatim. After our shopping and sitting together in the car – just the two of us, I felt I had truly won him over. He may not have written that he was sorry, but he said he was sorry for the way he had behaved. As we sat and talked, Fred finally understood our neighbor’s concern for the safety of the dogs, the younger children playing in the neighborhood, and for the owner of the two dogs who also happened to be in the final stages of pregnancy, and the danger that a dogfight might have imposed upon this woman. He might have written that he was grateful to have such a neighbor.
I, too, was grateful: grateful to have a caring neighbor and such a son, who despite his steely determination would allow chinks of oil to seep in and soften him once in a while.
We returned to our subdivision, and drove up the hill in the neighborhood. It was difficult to spot the house from which this neighbor might have emerged. We knew where the two dogs lived. From there it was an educated guess as to which of the houses it might be across the street.
“That one. The one with the brown door,” my son seemed to become more certain as we examined house after house of brick-front, shuttered constructions. We both went to the door.
A young woman breezily opened the door. She was perhaps wiping her hands from a meal. My son proffered the flowers and chocolates, but hesitated, suddenly mired in confusion. He did not recognize her being the woman who had yelled at him earlier. “Wait,” he said awkwardly. “Are you the one I had an argument with today?”
We described the events of the afternoon. “Oh,” she said, knowingly nodding her head. “That would be Kerri Pepin, next door.”
Kerri Pepin? Now it all made sense. I already knew her as another mom from Mrs. Stright’s kindergarten class at C.M. Bradley a few years ago. I knew and liked Kerri.
We went next door, but Kerri wasn’t available, so we spoke with Tom, her husband.
My son apologized to the husband of the woman he had offended. He handed over his portion of the peace treaty. Tom was very gracious and appreciative of the visit.
Kerri and I spoke afterward. She said the thing that had impressed her the most about my son’s apology was the card – that he had written a card.
You know what? Me too. I’m glad my son is still somewhat pliable (occasionally), and I’m glad we live in a time and place when neighbors can watch out for each other and their children.
This is the final part of a three-part series of columns.
My teenaged son, whom we shall call “Fred,” had offended a neighbor lady up the street while walking his dog. The neighbor had followed up with a visit to our home to complain of “Fred’s” behavior. We coaxed and reproved Fred and then, by the magic of online money transfers, subtracted $25 from Fred’s account. He was then, quite literally, driven out of the house (by car), to purchase and deliver flowers, candy, and a card for the neighbor. Rejoin this column as Fred is writing in the card.
We sat in our semi-darkened car as he filled the blank card with words. I was not going to allow this to be one of those situations where we have all the best intentions to “do it later” and then promptly forget to follow through. (Have I yet written to the ladies of the Christian Women’s Club of Warrenton and Zoar Baptist Church who sent us $200 at Thanksgiving, knowing that my husband, formerly the sole breadwinner – despite my recent contributions as a crumb-collector of sorts – was hospitalized? If my plans and actions would ever align, I might have less need to be ashamed of myself. Carrying this burden about mars one’s ability to lecture others, especially one’s children.)
Though it was cold, he sat and wrote. His words were neither contrived nor produced under duress. They were sincere, if a little stiff. You see, Fred is obstinate. He refuses to concede any point when he is convinced he is right. The problem with Fred, as with most of us, is that he always seems to be right about almost everything. (Or so he thinks.)
My son’s face stiffens when he believes you are talking some rubbish. He and his face don’t mind conveying this sentiment, either. That must have been the face that he gave our neighbor: impassive, but seething within. His lips are set and his eyes are squinted and hardened. You aren’t going to get past that steel façade easily.
If you do, though, he has an incredibly winning smile. When things go well, or he finally admits to mischief, he has the most handsome and infectious smile. He refuses to oblige you with a fake smile, so if you get one, it is genuine and rewarding.
So Fred wrote from his semi-steel heart. I don’t have his words verbatim. After our shopping and sitting together in the car – just the two of us, I felt I had truly won him over. He may not have written that he was sorry, but he said he was sorry for the way he had behaved. As we sat and talked, Fred finally understood our neighbor’s concern for the safety of the dogs, the younger children playing in the neighborhood, and for the owner of the two dogs who also happened to be in the final stages of pregnancy, and the danger that a dogfight might have imposed upon this woman. He might have written that he was grateful to have such a neighbor.
I, too, was grateful: grateful to have a caring neighbor and such a son, who despite his steely determination would allow chinks of oil to seep in and soften him once in a while.
We returned to our subdivision, and drove up the hill in the neighborhood. It was difficult to spot the house from which this neighbor might have emerged. We knew where the two dogs lived. From there it was an educated guess as to which of the houses it might be across the street.
“That one. The one with the brown door,” my son seemed to become more certain as we examined house after house of brick-front, shuttered constructions. We both went to the door.
A young woman breezily opened the door. She was perhaps wiping her hands from a meal. My son proffered the flowers and chocolates, but hesitated, suddenly mired in confusion. He did not recognize her being the woman who had yelled at him earlier. “Wait,” he said awkwardly. “Are you the one I had an argument with today?”
We described the events of the afternoon. “Oh,” she said, knowingly nodding her head. “That would be Kerri Pepin, next door.”
Kerri Pepin? Now it all made sense. I already knew her as another mom from Mrs. Stright’s kindergarten class at C.M. Bradley a few years ago. I knew and liked Kerri.
We went next door, but Kerri wasn’t available, so we spoke with Tom, her husband.
My son apologized to the husband of the woman he had offended. He handed over his portion of the peace treaty. Tom was very gracious and appreciative of the visit.
Kerri and I spoke afterward. She said the thing that had impressed her the most about my son’s apology was the card – that he had written a card.
You know what? Me too. I’m glad my son is still somewhat pliable (occasionally), and I’m glad we live in a time and place when neighbors can watch out for each other and their children.
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