hey you, get off my lawn

Right around the time Lydia was born I happened to notice something moving around in the natural area beyond the lawn in our back yard through the windows. I looked up in time to see a bright yellow go cart backing up out of the natural area into the trees. I also noticed a trail had been made. This was not the go cart’s first venture.

I was not amused by the go cart thing leaving trails within ten feet of our sod and we made plans to talk to the known culprits but it kept getting pushed off to the side. Property infringement becomes a low priority when you have a newborn.

The trail crept closer and closer to our sod and was well within our property. My blood pressure rose every time I saw that flash of yellow but we still put it off. One side effect of large property lots is you don’t get a chance to meet your neighbors very often and, except for our next door neighbors, we have not met a soul in the two and a half years we’ve lived here. It would just suck for our introduction to be, “Yeah, hey, I’m Carrie and I live over there. Y’all are on my property. Git!”

Then last month, the dirtbikes started. Kids on dirtbikes all over the neighborhood, up and down the road, all on that trail in our yard, even after dark. Blood pressure rising.

Last Sunday, I saw the dirtbikes had connected the trail in our backyard up by the left side of our house and up to the street, skimming the sodline by inches. That was the last straw for me. It just had to end or they’d be all over the place. Maybe I sound like a grumpy old lady but I just don’t want dirtbikes making trails around my house.

I throw on some clothes over my unshowered, un-makeuped self while Steven keeps the Kiddo. The whole time I’m walking down the street toward the Go Cart house I was feeling like I was having an out-of-body experience; I couldn’t believe I was about to do what I was totally determined to accomplish. I slipped into my work personality and rang the doorbell.

A young girl answered the door, took a look at me, and said, “I’ll go get my mom.” The mom came up with another younger child and she was very nice. We talked for a few minutes. I introduced myself and in so many words I think my spiel did come out just like I was afraid it would, but c’est la vie, non? She was nice about it and it turns out that there are quite a few families in the neighborhood that have dirtbikes and similar equipment that we see riding around the neighborhood.

Much innocence was feigned — I would’ve done the same — and I just asked if they could spread the word w/ the others if they saw them. The little girl assured her mom: “Oh, I don’t ride on that trail.”

Ahh, so it’s a known trail. I wonder if it has a name like The Bunny Slope or Slalom.

On the way back I didn’t feel quite accomplished as I could still hear the dirtbikes barreling through our back yard. Well, if I can talk to a mom, I can definitely talk to a kid. I get our mail out the mailbox and wait for the next kid to come up by the house — only a 30 second wait. I noted that his Alabama shirt would make this slightly easier.

I would guess he was 13 and he was quite polite, though he first politely suggested that it was Mr. John’s property (“Uhh, no.”) then politely asked if they could use the trail since it’s already there (“No.”).

I am very pleased with myself for finally speaking to the people going through our yard. So far, not a single motorized piece of equipment has been spotted and hopefully the trail will grow back over soon.

However, I do feel bad that that was our first — and so far, only — introduction to those neighbors. We are those weird, creepy neighbors that never come outside. The ones Cathy and I told stories about with the other neighborhood kids while growing up.

That night, after finally getting my well-deserved shower, I lamented that to Steven.

“I think that’s great,” he said. “I want to be that family. That way they won’t bother us. They probably think we’re vampires.”

So. We’re the Vampire Family of Lime Creek. Beware.