The Rock Garden (A new look at an old idea)

"That blasted noise!"
The old man struggled to his feet and walked to the huge pane glass window in the front room. He parted the curtains with his hand and peered out into the late afternoon haze.
"It's the Hendersons again. If I didn't know better I'd think he was dealin drugs outta that house. Look at all those cars. What could he be doing at this time of day on a Sunday afternoon?"
Jim Offenmore was always monitoring his neighbors, but lately he had taken a peculiar interest in the Hendersons; they were too perfect. What with their three small children and her Barbi-esk looks. No one is that beautiful. The old man was nearing his seventieth birthday and not looking forward to it. Ever since his own sweetheart Janice passed away over fifteen years ago, he just couldn't seem to find that spark.
Then too, the world was changing. Jim shuffled into the kitchen and then to his favorite rocking chair in the back bedroom. His home was not fancy, but it was comfortable. He and his wife purchased it years ago, back when their was only grass and scrub oak as far as the eye could see. Jim loved to be left alone. Oh he didn't hate people, he just didn't need them around all the time.
The garden started quite by accident. It was a simple mistake. The boys were merely enjoying the vacant lot behind the Offenmore home.
"Strike one" Yelled Sandy McCallister.
Another lad chimed in,
"He'll never hit it. Heavy Hitter! Move in." It was Forest Clayson in right field.
The sandlot was a wash with the typical childhood banter that accompanies a robust afternoon baseball game.
"Strike Two!"
The batter was Timothy Baxter. He was the smallest kid on the field and he desperately wanted to get a hit. He lowered his stance and steadied his gaze, concentrating on the pitch. This was his last chance. His intensity radiated to everyone on the field. A strange silence floated across the vacant lot, like an eerie fog floating in from the restless ocean.
The pitcher wound up and sent the small sphere sailing toward the crouching boy. There was a crack and the ball was sent high into the sky amid the exultant screams of the boys. Higher and higher it flew then descended in it's arching trajectory. Timothy was so amazed he forgot to run to first base. Down it came until another crash was heard. It was the bedroom window of the Offenmore home. The ball shattered the glass, sending shards in all directions. The back door to the home flew open. Henry Olsen screamed from right field,
"It's old man Offenmore. Run!"
Like mice who have been spotted by the local cat, the boys scattered. All that is except poor Timothy. He didn't have the presence of mind to flee.
"You! Get over here!"
Obediently, Timothy slowly shuffled toward the menacing form standing on the porch.
"You the brat that broke my window?"
"Yes sir, I uh... I mean I'm sorry, it was an accident. I'll pay for it."
"You bet you will! You get out of here and don't ever let me see your face around here again. You're no good, do you hear me? No Damn Good! I'll be talking to the police about this. Don't think I'll forget either!"
Timothy ran from the field in hysterics. The old man's words had cut deep. Of course Jim didn't really mean what he said, he was angry. Still, the boy had broken his window. Jim felt he had been violated. He had to remember this offense, he had to find a way to remind himself.
Like a scheming tyrant, he paced back and forth, searching for the right remedy for his wounded ego. Then it hit him,
"That's it. Of course."
Without a moments hesitation, Jim walked out his door and into the backyard. Searching he found a large, smooth, stone lying against the fence. Hefting it with his might, he lugged the heavy boulder to the front yard and plopped it down. It landed right next to the front sidewalk. Retrieving some paint from the back shed, he scrawled the boy's name on the rock.
"Timmy broke my window"
There it was in bright, red, paint for all to see. Yes, know the world would know the pain inflicted on him by that thoughtless boy. Content, Jim retired for the evening.
"I'll sleep well tonight", he thought to himself.
The days went buy and Jim continued work on his little garden. Each new offense became another addition to his ever growing stone topiary.
There was the incident with Jim's mailman. He dropped the mail in a puddle before it could be delivered. Jim Was livid.
"I'll call the postmaster. You'll be flippin burgers by tomorrow afternoon!" He screamed.
The Postman had apologized profusely, but Jim would have none of it. Each new offense simply gave validation to his supposition that the world was a rotten place, filled with loathsome people. Day after day, year after year, he labored on his hobby all the while growing darker and darker, as if a gruesome shade was being drawn over his soul.
It is said,
"that which you most desire, you become".
Truer words were never spoken to describe the old man at 426 Elm Drive. Jim's labor of loathing was now nearly complete. With his life spent and his strength gone, he now spent his days on the old front porch, admiring his creation.
The once youthful and exuberant man who held life by the tail, seemed now to be more shadow than soul. Hunched over and gnarled, he rocked back and forth in the cool autumn evening, glaring at the world. His garden was now complete, at least for the moment.
There was the large rock that started the endeavor, the jagged rock scrawled with the declaration of the postman's brazen offense, and hundreds more similar stone reminders. To Jim, it seemed to be a work of art. Often he would walk his garden, muttering to himself the trite writings found on each stone edifice, marveling at his monumental achievement.
It was the next day that the life changing event took place. Jim was making his rounds, admiring his work of vengeful spite when a young mother and her five year old son came strolling down the street. Jim saw them come and positioned himself near the old tree, near the sidewalk. He wanted to take in the comments of this new admirer of his garden. He listened intently as he heard,
"There it is, Mommy. See? I told you it was here!"
Jim's chest began to swell at the thought of how impressed his uninvited guests would be at the sight of his creation. There was a sudden intake of breath as the mother stopped and stared at the sight. She did not notice the bent and wrinkled old man by the tree.
"It's hideous. Oh, it looks like a graffiti junkyard. Why would anyone do such a thing? They are so ugly. Come dear, we need to cross the street. I don't ever want you to come by this house again, do you understand? Who could do such a thing?"
The woman's comments were as a sharp sword, slicing the thin veil of illusion away from Jim's eyes. Was it true? Could he have created something truly awful? Like a person granted sight for the first time, so it was with Jim. He looked at his garden with new eyes. What he saw shocked him into reality. His yard was littered with rocks of all shapes and sizes. Each one bearing an ugly scrawl of paint. Weeds and grass filled in the gaps creating a scene that could have been taken from a 1920's war film. His once pristine and immaculate house now displayed the affects of years of neglect, the high ransom wrought upon it as Jim tended his garden of ill will.
Jim felt a great pain deep in his chest. This final awakening had not come without a price. Gripping his chest he stumbled toward the front porch. A normal person, faced with such a calamity, would have called for aid and been attended to quickly. Unfortunately, Jim had burned those bridges long ago. He was alone, and on his own.
The paper reported the event in their usual callous manner.
'An elderly man was found dead on his front steps from an apparent heart attack. His name is being withheld pending notification of his next of kin. In other news...'
How does your garden grow? To forgive another has nothing to do with whether the offender is in need of such forgiveness, rather it is the first aid for the soul of the one offended. Deny it, and you too can have a garden of rock and weed of your very own.