Gone public

Our backyard is the Hardy to our Laurel of a house. Relatively, it's huge. Upon seeing it for the first time, most visitors assume it's an empty lot adjacent to our property. And of course we, being in that childless mad-dash phase of life, don't spend much time back there (though are planning a badminton tournament as soon as the weather cools--anyone in?).

This deserted stretch of green is interminably tempting to neighborhood children. My favorite lives next door: Nando (from Fernando) is the son of a man from Aguascalientes and a woman from Orem, who has made the uncommon journey of assimilation into Mexican culture while living in Provo, Utah. Since the time he was three, Nando has helped me with heavy-duty yard work, and not in that cute but actually unhelpful little kid sort of way. He will silently watch me for a few minutes, go fetch some tool or instrument from his house, and begin solemnly moving dirt, piling up rocks, raking and bagging leaves, etc.

About a month ago, some new--very blond--kids moved in to the apartment buildings across the street. I've never met their parent(s?) but I often hear their dad bellowing at them from afar. They have tough exteriors. They have nowhere to play. A week ago I came home to see the blond girl (Brittanica, like the encyclopedia, you know?) and an unfamiliar girl from down the road (Bela is her name, or Isabela in thick Spanish, and do I speak more Spanish or English?) sitting on a blanket in the back yard. They ask, "can we have permission to play in your yard?"

Two nights later I come home to see two not-quite-orange pumpkins sitting on the back porch--pumpkins I was specifically leaving to fatten on the vine until Halloween. Josh reported several kids fleeing the scene of the crime and even found the murder weapon, a small knife, underneath some giant squash leaves. I felt so angry and so entitled to that anger. I had been taken advantage of. I paused on the sidewalk halfway to my neighbor's porch, preparing a speech in Spanish in my head. Nando opened the door and before a well-formulated line escaped my lips, he blamed the premature pumpkin harvesting on the "stupid" kid across the street. The kid across the street responded (many times, like a mantra) "I swear to God I didn't do it." The next day I learned that the third suspect, Bela-Isabela, is one of six children, two parents, and an uncle who just got kicked out of the house they were renting. They're "going to live in the van for a while" if they can't find another house soon. But she seems to have forgotten this a few minutes later when I glance through my window to see her dark head nearly touching Brittanica's pale one as they apply make-up to each other's nine-year-old faces.

We've talked about fencing in the backyard, but I wonder what we would be fencing out.