Lawn Wars

I can’t remember the exact day it started, but I think it was last Thursday. I was walking to the market, whistling softly to myself when I noticed Mr. Crane and Mrs. Thompson arguing on the lawns outside their homes. It was perhaps midday, and the sun was beating down on our little town as though with a vengeance. But that didn’t seem to matter to either of my neighbours who were dressed in long sleeves and full length bottoms, squaring off against each other as though off to war.

“You rusty corn-sniffer, I say!” yelled Mrs. Thompson, her eye twitching menacingly. She was an old lady, hunched and tanned from years of working in the fields where she harvested her crops. And today her pale grey hair was tied back in a painful looking bun, her gnarled hands balled into fists as she raged at Mr. Crane.

“Ya stomped all over ma flowers an’ now there ain’t nothin’ left!”

“How dare ya, ya ol’ hag! I been inside all mornin’ an’ I ain’t got nothin’ ta do with yer ugly lawn.” Mr. Crane retorted, already turning his back on the small woman and marching back to his door.

“Then who done it, dirt sniffer?” Mrs. Thompson screeched after him. “‘Cause it ain’t look like that las’ night!” Mr. Crane turned abruptly.

“A hog pro’ly tramped yer green! So jus’ drop the darn matter an’ leave me alone!” Mrs. Thompson’s chin wobbled, and she looked like she was about to explode.

Pointing an accusing finger at him, she hollered: “This ain’t over! An’ next time ya even think ‘bout my yard, I want ya to remember who made it!”  She finished by waving her fist in the air and retreating back to her house, grumbling colourful obscenities about Mr. Crane’s carelessness and idiocy under her breath.

-*-

On Saturday, the whole town was buzzing with news about the feud between my neighbours. Some claimed they’d gotten into a fight with pitchforks and shovels while others swore that couldn’t be true, as Mr. Crane was far too brawny to be beating up an old lady… They said he had to have gotten his mutt to do it instead. But personally, I believed neither side because I had seen the pair of them haggling over groceries on Saturday. They couldn’t have possibly had time to brawl if both were caught in an argument over vegetables. And so the rumors spread, inevitably leading to the ears of my good friend Mrs. Wallis, also known as the town’s gossip.

She was a plump, middle aged woman who often had me over for tea on Sundays so she could inquire about my love life. And though she wasn’t particularly bright, the entertainment I got from listening to her stories was more than enough to keep me coming back for more.

“Did ya hear the news this mornin’?” asked Mrs. Wallis excitedly as she ushered me through the threshold. I raised an eyebrow unseriously, taking my usual perch on the edge of her worn sofa as she poured me a cup of tea. 

“Heard from lil’ Bucky down the road there that those two neighbours o’ yers are still fightin’!” she said the words so fast she had to pause to take a breath. “‘Said Mrs. Thompson stuck a sign in Mr. Crane’s yard - big ol’ thing - and that he ain’t noticed it yet. Turns out he’s out on business, somewhere in Northtown from what I hear, so he won’ be back ‘til late tomorrow.”

-*-

And it was true. Come Sunday afternoon, I was strolling through the neighbourhood when I noticed a bright red sign stuck deep into the lawn of Mr. Crane’s yard. 

It was large enough to cover half his door and had a bold message printed angrily on the front: HIDE YOUR YARD! THIS WEED-WRANGLER DESTROYED MY LAWN AND HE’LL DESTROY YOURS TOO!

I honestly couldn’t hide my shock, but at the same time, I felt like laughing at the absurdity of Mrs. Thompson’s dramatics. The woman knew how to be ridiculous, that much was clear. And ironically enough, I bumped into that very same lady on my way to church. 

She was watering the square’s plants as I passed, bent over in concentration as she mumbled gibberish to herself. I tried staying silent, but the woman’s ears were like a cat’s, and she immediately heard me coming. 

“Rowe!” I nearly fell to the ground when her watering can swung wide, missing me by inches. “Beware that Mr. Crane! He’s a threat to ma yard and everyone else’s! You saw what ‘e did to my flowerbed!” Nodding slightly, I took a step back and forced a small smile. 

“I did, and will do Mrs. T. Thanks for the warnin’.”

-*-

On Monday morning, Mr. Crane arrived home, and, unsurprisingly to most everyone in town, he went absolutely ballistic at seeing the sign. In retaliation, he ended up mowing Mrs. Thompson’s yard so horrifically that not only were there bald patches littering the green, he had also destroyed her flowers, sprinkling the lawn with shredded petals and stem leaves. 

“You gravelmouthed savage!” screamed Mrs. Thompson, back from the baker’s and looking oddly intimidating holding a simple basket of bread. There was fury in her eyes as she stalked toward Mr. Crane and yanked a muffin from her hamper. “Ma garden’s all ruined again ‘cause a you. When will ya begin actin’ civilized?” And without a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Thompson threw the muffin. It hit Mr. Crane straight on the nose and stained it purple with blueberry juice.

“Me? Yer the one throwin’ things!” he bellowed, swiping the colour off his nose. “I ain’t done nothin’ ‘til now, but only ‘cause ya put up a sign in ma yard! If ya want more flowers, go buy some, ‘cause I ain’t at fault here.”

“You destroyed ma lawn again!” shrieked Mrs. Thompson, narrowly avoiding a chunk of grass to the face from Mr. Crane.

“You deserved it!” he said, a deep scowl forming on his face. “I’m through with yer pettiness, an’ if ya want to blame me for yer issues so badly, I’ll give ya a reason!”

And that’s how the afternoon escalated into a bloodbath, or rather, a water bath.

I can’t remember which of them was the first to pick up a hose, but before I knew it, the pair of them were spraying each other with powerful jets of water as they took cover behind bushes within their property lines. They bickered like children, shouting profanities and random insults as they showered one another with cold hose water for what felt like hours.

“Mud-scraper!” laughed Mr. Crane when a sliver of Mrs. Thompson’s dress peeked out from behind her bush. She squealed when the blast hit her in the leg, before she fell back on the grass, pointing her hose at Mr. Crane in defense. He had just stood up from where he was crouched behind his own bush, when Mrs. Thompson’s jet hit him square in the chest and caused him, too, to fall onto his back. He huffed, pulling himself back up, and marched toward Mrs. Thompson - his feet squelching with every step. Her eyes widened in terror as he approached with the hose. But before he got the chance to drench her, an unexpected  muffin came flying out of the little woman’s hand, promptly hitting him in the eye.

“Ya low down!” he cried, clutching his eye. “Ya cheated!” Mrs. Thompson only smirked, staggering back to her feet as she picked up her hose.

“Ain’t no such thing as cheatin’ when the other low down ruins yer flowerbed!” Her words were like a battle cry, and before anyone knew what was happening, she and Mr. Crane turned their jets on at the same time. The two streams crashed into one another, soaking the quarrelers to the bone until both were heaving piles of flesh laying splayed out on their respective lawns.

Neither got up for a while, as neither seemed to have the energy - instead choosing to dry in the sun and letting it bake the grass onto their skins.

Meanwhile, I walked away, the mud from Mrs. Thompson’s garden still laying dried and crusted on the soles of my boots.