She immediately called.
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I added:
“And I have a plan.”
The following morning, I walked directly into Monica’s yard.
Nobody stopped me.
Electricity
I picked up my garden gnome and carried him home.
The blue paint Monica had slapped over him couldn’t hide the chipped nose or traces of the old red hat underneath.
I placed him beside the outdoor outlet.
Then I made a few preparations.
Nothing dangerous.
Nothing that could hurt anyone.
Just enough to make it very difficult for Monica to pretend she wasn’t trespassing again.
Around lunchtime, Diane called.
“Mom, you sound suspiciously cheerful.”
“I’m gardening.”
“You’re plotting something.”
“Only if Monica gives me a reason.”
“Mom…”
I laughed and changed the subject.
For a moment afterward, though, I wondered whether I was being ridiculous.
I was sixty-four years old.
Was I really sitting there thinking about teaching my neighbor a lesson with a garden gnome?
