The Place Beyond the Lilacs

We used to have the coolest backyard.

We share a property line with the neighbors to the north of us. There is no alley or road dividing the two yards. So, six years ago, when me moved in, the effect was that we shared one giant lawn with our back neighbors.

There was no fence, but there was a natural partition—a row of lilac trees that yielded a fragrant, white froth of blooms each spring.

The occupants of the other house were one very elderly lady and her cat. We didn't know her well; she hardly ever went outside except to sit on a wooden bench she had under the lilacs.

Our kids sometimes wandered around on her property to talk to her or play with her cat. She didn't mind.

This communal paradise yard went on for a while.

Then one winter, three years ago, the lady died.

Her house was sold, and stayed empty for a while.

Then suddenly, one Monday morning as I was getting the kids ready for school, there was a work crew in that yard. Backhoes and chainsaws and diggers and mini-bulldozers. Whatever small excavating machinery they could fit in there.

Out went the grass, the bench and the bluebells.

Our children watched from our back yard in tears as a worker took a chainsaw to the lilacs and felled them in a few short minutes. It was a Watership Down moment.

It was clear our new neighbors were building a fence. I saw a family there, and went over to introduce myself. There wasn't much we could do about it. The fence was on their property line. The lilacs were technically in their yard.

They built the highest fence allowed under the building code.

And the kids, though they occasionally peeked through the fence at each other, never met.

Until recently.

It was a blustery but warm and sunny fall afternoon, my kids were just home from school and went to play in the back yard.

The neighbors' kids were out in their yard with their nanny watching over them.

“Hi,” my 5-year-old son called out.

No response.

“Hi!” he bellowed. "Hi! Hi! Hello-o!"

He's third born, and is used to being ignored.

Finally one of the neighbor's children answered him back.

“Hi!” said the little boy. He had glasses and looked a bit shy.

 “I want to come play with you,” hollered my son. “But your fence is too high to climb!”

At that point, he and his two sisters ran out back together.

They tried to scramble up the fence, but couldn't get a foothold. It was a fortress wall.

My daughters tried to boost up my son and help him climb the fence, but instead they made a type of tottering pyramid. The other kids' nanny, probably sensing this meant trouble in some way, ushered her charges inside and slammed shut the sliding glass door.

We haven't seen them since.

It is a good fence. Well-constructed, anyway. But I'm not sure it has made us good neighbors.