The most notorious battleground, however, was their gardens.
My mother, Laura, adored flowers. She loved the soft chaos of colors, the way petals opened to the sun, and the quiet satisfaction of watching something bloom under careful attention. I inherited that love from her, and my grandfather made it his personal mission to ensure that our garden was always bursting with life.
One afternoon, when I was about ten years old, I sat at the kitchen table beside him, crumbs of warm cookies scattered between us. He had just come in from the yard, his hands still smelling faintly of earth.
“Clara,” he said, using the tone that meant he was about to impart something important, “as long as these hands can still work, you and your mother will never be without flowers.”
I smiled, not fully grasping the weight of his promise. Even then, though, I associated him with quiet certainty. He was always there, picking me up from school, taking me to the park, sneaking me ice cream before dinner, and listening patiently to stories that probably bored him senseless. To me, he was safety, warmth, and consistency.
And yet, right next door lived Harold Finch, the man my grandfather seemed to reserve all his irritation for.
Their rivalry was the kind that entertained the rest of the neighborhood. People whispered about it at block parties and laughed over it during morning walks. There were petty complaints filed with the homeowners’ association, passive-aggressive notes left in mailboxes, and once, memorably, an incident involving a garden hose that soaked both men and ended with shouting loud enough to draw a small audience.
To me, it was just the way things were. Continue reading…
