The Canadian is in my garden again…
I woke up in the morning, went downstairs to grab my cup of coffee, and saw him once again shoveling in my garden.
I forgot about my coffee, immediately stormed out into my porch and was starting to shout when something caught my eye, and I stopped.
It wasn’t just Joseph this morning.
There were tents all across the neighborhood. Cars were parked on my neighbors’ lawns, and there were so many campfires that a smoky haze had settled over the street. “What the heck…” I said to no one in particular. I could feel that my mouth was hanging open. I didn’t care. I was too stunned.
There were men — Canadians, presumably — all over the place.
Several were digging holes, one was hoeing, and one was hacking at the Johnsons’ tree. One was even building a small house in the (appropriately) Woodsen’s backyard. I looked at Joseph, my utter surprise surely written across my face. He had a satisfied — smug — expression on his face. “I told you,” he said. “This is my land. And this (he waved out at the entire neighborhood– is all of our (he motioned to all the men and tents) land.” After a moment, he added, “And we are from Canada.”
“Holy heck,” I said under my breath, looking all around me. I didn’t know how to respond. What was happening? It seemed like another hallucination. But it wasn’t. What does one do when something so outrageous as this happens in a civilized city? I’ll just call the police, I thought.
Already my neighbors were appearing on their porches. The Crosbys stood in stunned disbelief. Mr. Johnson raced to protect his tree. Suddenly, Woodsen, an older gentleman — a Vietnam vet and a notorious hothead — emerged with a gun. “Get off my property!” he hollered, and when no one moved he leveled the gun and shot the Canadian building the house.
Before the echo of the gun had died away, all chaos broke loose.
The wounded Canadian screaming in pain, neighbors chasing after the Canadians, some Canadians racing to the aid of their friend while others ran for safety. One of the Canadians hurled a shovel, which narrowly missed both the Crosbys.
It was mayhem.
But soon the Canadians were climbing in their cars. The sound of many cars roared to life, the cars all pulled into gear at once as though on queue, and soon after there was a louder roar as the Canadians raced to safety.
As the last of the cars turned onto the street and drove away, we all whooped for joy at once. We’d chased off the Canadians! But then the joy settled into bemusement and even perhaps a little fear.
Wait a minute, we all seemed to think at once. What was happening? Why were Canadians treating our neighborhood like a campground? Would they come back?
Clearly my incident with Joseph had not been an isolated event by a wigged out Canadian. Something more was at work here. But what?
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