Street Smarts – Part III - Apology Accepted

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.

A neighborhood stroll is no walk in the park

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, Feb. 18th, 2011


This is the first in a three-part saga.

This tale involves flowers and candy, but not on Valentine’s Day. It began with my teenaged son taking a walk in the neighborhood and ended with him buying and delivering flowers and chocolates to a neighbor lady – a married one, at that!


I will not name this son of mine because every once in a while, I like to think about my children’s feelings. I don’t let this happen too frequently, because that could impinge on my parenting skills as well as my liberty to share with you embarrassing scrapes they get into. But he actually gave me permission to write about this. This happened well over a year ago, and so my “broadcasting license” on this one is just a tad stale, but you don’t really expect me to try to renew it, do you? First of all, I’m writing this at 4 am. Secondly, what if he were to change his groggy mind? I don’t want to lose my license any more than you want me to.


So I don’t implicate which particular brown boy of mine was involved, I have created a Writers’ Protection Program. In writing this piece, I will call this boy of mine ‘Fred.’ It doesn’t matter what I call him, actually. I don’t know about your children, but mine don’t respond to any of the names we agonized over before their birth. When you’ve roared that unique, amazing, and etymologically significant name of theirs four or five times, that’s when they start thinking about possibly responding to that clever name you gave them. Only when your face is contorted and red, and when your ugly uvula is exposed like some sort of maniacal cartoon character, do they respond. Might as well call the kid Fred, after all.


Also, because our pre-named shelter dog features in this, I shall obscure her name as well. The canine will be referred to as Letty Boo. See how clever I can be in the predawn hours?


So, this is what happened last winter:


I came home one evening to the news that a neighbor had recently descended upon our door with a complaint about Fred’s behavior. This was a novel experience for me, and novel does not necessarily mean nice. It was tinged with embarrassment. We all have these great expectations of our children; we pour our very souls into them, and then they become the taint of the neighborhood. Nice.


My husband had earlier dispatched one of the older girls to trudge up the neighborhood with our son so that he could offer his apology, but they were unable to find the house, and the woman’s name had been garbled in the message. We weren’t sure which neighbor had been offended, or where she lived exactly, but there was offense in the air in our neighborly little community.


It was just getting dark. My mood was getting darker. I may botch some details here, but you’ll extend me a little license too, right? My memory is not what it used to be.


And let me exonerate myself in case I should botch any details: I may tend to repeat or omit details. After all, my memory is not what it used to be. Or did I just tell you that?


The facts of the matter, as retold by my fuming Fred, were something like this:


Fred and Letty Boo were innocently and congenially taking a walk up the street in our neighborhood. Fred was most assuredly carrying a bag to collect any deposits that Letty Boo might decide to make, even though who can imagine a perfect pooch doing such a thing? He had probably waved to neighbors and friends and helped old ladies cross the street. Furthermore, Fred may even have filled up the bike tires of struggling small children along the way. And the birds, of course, were undoubtedly chirping.


Suddenly, out of nowhere, two vicious Pekingese attack dogs bounded into their own yard next to the sidewalk occupied by this young model citizen and his canine compatriot. That particular yard has an underground electric fence, and although Fred knew that these two rabid animals could not possibly cross onto the sidewalk and into their realm, unfortunately, Letty Boo did not. Not being privy to this vital bit of engineering, Letty Boo began snarling, snapping, lunging, and drooling at her two furry, snack-sized foes.


Stay tuned for the second part of this tale.