The Fence Cap

The morning I finally decided to do something about it, I was standing in my backyard with a cup of coffee, watching a stranger’s bed sheet billow in the breeze.Not my sheet. Not a sheet I had hung there. A sheet that belonged to my neighbors, the family behind me, and which had been clipped to the top of my fence sometime before I woke up, stretched between two fence panels like a sail, catching the October light, blocking part of my view of the yard I mow every Saturday and pay taxes on every year.

I stood there long enough to finish most of my coffee. Then I went inside, refilled the cup, and came back out. The sheet was still there. Of course it was. Sheets don’t move on their own.
I want to be clear that I am not an unreasonable person. I don’t have strong opinions about most things. I don’t mediate neighborhood disputes or leave notes about parking or track which houses have their garbage cans out past the allowed time. I have lived in the same place just outside Columbus for going on six years, and in that time I have had exactly two meaningful interactions with any neighbor: once to return a package that was delivered to my address by mistake, and once to ask if a dog that kept appearing in my yard was theirs. It was. They apologized. We moved on. This is, I think, the ideal form of neighbor relationship: cordial, minimal, low-maintenance.

I’m also not someone who turns small annoyances into large grievances. My general approach to life is that if something isn’t actively hurting me or anyone else, it’s probably not worth expending significant energy on. I’ve watched people spend months in a state of barely contained fury over genuinely tiny things, and I’ve always thought that looked exhausting.