Sixteen Pickets

The bell rang, signaling the end of another school year.

I started home, thinking of my many plans I had for summer. I wanted to do a lemonade stand, go swimming, see a baseball game, and learn how to mow the yard the way Dad did. I walked down 2nd Street, full of hope and happiness. Maybe this would be the summer I would finally stay up all night, like Tommy’s Dad would when he wasn’t working.

I was so happy for summer to come I forget where I was. Mr. Snyder’s house was on the West Side of the street, where I was. Kids knew to avoid his house. Mr. Snyder was a grouchy old man with no use for children. He lived in a gray house set back in the far corner lot of the block. His lot was surrounded by a white picket fence. When he wasn’t painting his fence or washing his car, he was yelling at any kid that came within 20 feet of his yard to get away from the fence. Most kids were scared of him.

I usually went a different way home, as a way to avoid the hassle. Today was special, though. It was the last day of school. After today, I wasn’t planning on being near that part of town for three months. What did it matter, anyway?

Anyway, I was walking down the street and I realized I was next to the fence. I could hear Mr. Snyder yelling at me to get away, but I kept on walking. Then, Matt called to me. I turned to face him, and my backpack brushed the fence. He was on his new bike, waving at me. I waved back and turned back towards home.

About then, a heavy hand grabbed my arm. “So, you’re the one breaking my fence!” said Mr. Snyder. “Come here, you! We’re going to talk about this.”

I looked. Apparently, my backpack brushing against his fence knocked a picket to the ground. Suddenly I knew I was in deep trouble. He’d been screaming at us for a long time. Now, he had me in custody.

He pulled me into his kitchen, where he sat me down in a chair. “I am so sick of you!” he said. “I have been out there fixing that fence all spring! I’ve had to replace sixteen pickets! Sixteen pickets! That’s a lot of money! And you know what? You’re going to pay for those sixteen pickets! What’s you’re phone number? I’m calling your Dad!”

I rattled off my phone number. I closed my eyes. I was responsible for sixteen pickets. That would have to cost at least three or four bucks. I’d never have that kind of money. How was I going to explain this one to my Dad? He’d make me go to work for the summer. My plans were ruined.

I opened my eyes. Mrs. Snyder was making dinner. It looked like the Snyders were going to dine on meatloaf that evening. She’d pause from her meal preparation only to look at me and shake her head in disgust. I could hear Mr. Snyder on the phone, talking to someone at home. All I could think about at that moment was, “Why didn’t I take another way home?”

He hung up the phone and put his sweater on. He than grabbed my arm and pulled me to a standing position. “Let’s go,” he said. “Your parents are waiting.”

We got into his Cadillac and started home. He pulled into our driveway, where both of my parents were waiting. My older sister was inside the door, drinking a Pepsi. I got out, and he grabbed my arm again, pulling me to my parents. He told them the whole story, including the part about the sixteen pickets. I stared at my Keds, waiting for their reaction.

My Dad listened to Mr. Snyder patiently, then looked at me. “Son, go inside,” was all he said. I ran into the house and into my room, where I buried myself in a pillow and cried.

My sister followed me in and pulled me to a sitting position. “What happened?” she asked. I told her everything, from Matt waving to me to the sixteen pickets. I ended my tale of woe with the statement, “I didn’t mean to!”

She hugged me. “It’s OK,” she said. “I believe you.”

Those words were magic. Suddenly, I could breathe again. Somehow, nothing else mattered. Even if I had to go to work to pay for 200 pickets, it was a relief to know that someone believed me. I hugged her back.

As she held me, she said, “Don’t worry. Nothing will come of it. You’re not the kind of kid who breaks other people’s things. Besides, Mr. Snyder is a mean old man. Don’t worry about it.”

Nothing did come of it. It was never brought up. Neither of my parents talked to me about it, and it never came up in conversation. That night, my Dad took me out into the yard and showed me how to operate the lawn mower. I didn't pay for 16 pickets, and as far as I knew, neither did my Dad. That summer, I got to do all the stuff I’d planned to do, except stay up all night.