There have always been some things that bother me about our location. One of the chief ones being that we live next to a lovely piece of land that needs looking after. When I first saw our house, next door was an extremely run down and scary house. When we finally bought our house three years later, new owners had torn it down and seemed to have plans for the now empty field. They had begun building a fence, which was very nice, but seemed to have been abandoned. The 4x4s tilting crazily in their ill-dug holes, the pile of lumber growing weeds, and the old sacks of hardened quickrete loosely covered by a tarp had remained untouched since we moved in eight months ago. The abandoned car growing moss and poison-ivy from its hood parked near the pond bog, and the fact that the property has never been mowed, gave me the impression that its owners cared very little for their new purchase.
We had never met the owner of the land, he lived in a house he built on other land nearby, but we had met one of his brothers who often came to camp in the back acerage. We discovered while hiking around the land (the plot is some 60 acres) the most beautiful building site. I would love to move our house there some day, but some people think I am crazy.
Anyway. The pile of lumber and the bags of concrete mix bugged me immensely. They are right next to my house, and since the tarp on the bags was removed or blew away sometime this winter, the bags have begun to look like trash piled up in my lovely view. This is not even to mention the horrible bog or the nasty car, or the weeds. As I have begun going outside more and making plans to improve our land, I had become, well, mad. One day, as I was walking around the bog (it is a large hole very near my house which sets at the very edge of our land, filled with scummy, smelly, foul water) someone (who will remain nameless) suggested that I kick the bags of quickrete into the bog. He was just joking, and I laughed at this idea. Until a few days later when I was again looking at the mess.
All the sudden, something overtook me, and I rushed over to the pile and kicked. Hard. One of the bags fell nicely into the water, almost being submerged. The next bag (they weighed around 60 pounds) was harder, and barely made it over the edge. I had to pick the last bag up and try to heave it, but it wouldn’t go farther than the tangle of weeds on the “bank”. I felt satisfied, however, because I could no longer see the mess.
I did not tell anyone what I had done. A week went by. Then it began to get very nice outside, and one day I saw a bunch of people drive into the property. This worried me. Having become more rational since the incident, I now realized that no one would think that three 60 pound bags of concrete would “fall” into a hole 3 feet away. And the evidence was still there- if you looked into the pond, you could see all three bags. Hmmm. So late that night, I confessed my deed to E. He could not believe what I had done. In a horrified voice, he informed me that he knew from the brother, that the owner LOVED the pond and had big plans for it. The same owner who was camping that very night a mere few acres away from the crime scene. He became very quiet suddenly, and the full weight of what I had done crashed down on me. WHAT had I been thinking? How would I explain myself? I did not even know these people- I was terrified. I wanted to go back in time, but there was no way to undo the deed. I had nothing to say for myself, and guiltily tried to sleep. All night I had nightmares, and tried to think of what I could possibly do before the morning, when, surely (if I had not already been noticed) the owners would stroll over to see their beautiful pond, and see three bags of concrete- not where they were when they left them.
Well, before it was even fully light, I persuaded E. to go to the pond with me and see what could be done. I crawled down into the stinky nastiness, and heaved the closest bag up to him to put in the dumpster. The others were too far in the water, so I retrieved the floating bag paper, and kicked them under the water as much as possible. Good thing too, since later that day, I met the nice guy who owned the land and loved the bog. To my chagrin, we did discuss the pond. He did not take to my idea of dumping gallons of bleach into the water to kill the mosquitoes, confirming E.’s suspicions of fond feeling for the awful place. Luckily we were not standing that close to the said area, for the conversation got around to the fact that sometimes it did dry out. I can only hope that does happen, and that I notice it first, and can get the remaining bags out before he builds a swing nearby or something!

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