I open the front door, only to be greeted by two women standing on the other side. One of them hesitates upon seeing me and takes a step back. “Oh!” she exclaims. I politely greet them, and one of the women remarks that they have caught me in the midst of a busy moment. She is referring to the fact that I am holding a large electric hedge trimmer.
My wife has been urging me to trim the tall hedge that separates our front garden from the neighbor’s for a while now. However, I have intentionally left it untrimmed, citing the bees as the reason. My wife, unsurprisingly, responds with a sigh.
A week passes, and the last remnants of the hedge’s blossoms fade away. My wife brings up the subject of trimming the hedge once again. This time, she presents me with a fully charged cordless hedge trimmer while I am sitting in the kitchen. “Now?” I respond skeptically. My wife lifts an eyebrow, summarizing all the previous conversations we have had on the matter.
Reluctantly, I carry the trimmer through the house to the front door, where the two women are patiently waiting. The second woman, who stands slightly behind the first, explains that they are distributing leaflets. I offer a nonchalant response and agree to accept one. However, I should have explained that I do not usually answer the door with a hedge trimmer in hand. If I had come to the door after they rang the bell, I would have set it down before answering. Unfortunately, none of this occurs to me in the moment.
The first woman kindly offers me a leaflet, extending it with two fingers. I accept it, thank them, and close the door. The leaflet asks the question, “Will our world get worse or better?” Inside, I jokingly mutter, “Get worse,” as I open the leaflet to see if my response aligns with the answer. Surprisingly, the leaflet suggests that the world will get better due to the presence of God. I set the leaflet aside and open the door once more, this time finding no one waiting outside.
As soon as I step outside, I fully understand why my wife raised an eyebrow earlier. The hedge, which we share with our neighbors, starkly contrasts our side to theirs. On our side, the hedge is encroaching upon the path, making it necessary to lean slightly to reach the front door. It must appear unwelcoming to visitors, I reflect. Though probably not as unwelcoming as a man answering the door with a hedge trimmer in hand.
I begin by trimming the top, ensuring it matches the height of our neighbor’s side. Once satisfied, I proceed to shape the vertical plane, aiming for a neat but not overly boxy appearance. Being excessively welcoming could have its downsides.
While working, I ponder about the countless times I have found myself face-to-face with strangers at my own front door, feeling inconvenienced or tricked, occasionally even mildly threatened. I recall an incident where a man defecated on my doorstep because I refused to buy a washing-up brush from him. I contemplate how those past encounters could have been different if I had answered the door while holding a bladed gardening tool.
As I taper the hedge’s bottom half, giving it a slight narrowing towards the ground, an idea forms in my mind. What if I held an idling chainsaw, wearing protective eyewear and armoured sleeves? Politely, I would inquire, “Is it important? I’m currently occupied with something.” The message would be clear: find another doorstep to leave your mess.
Examining the finished hedge from various angles, it appears straight, albeit slightly diminished. I return indoors and leave the trimmer on the small bench by the coats. I find my wife in the sitting room, watching tennis and reading the leaflet left by the women.
“The answer isn’t ‘get worse’,” I inform her as I sit down. “Even though it truly is.”
I hear my wife open the front door, then pause before closing it again. She enters the room with a rake in her hand. “Am I supposed to clean up all those trimmings?” she asks.
“No,” I reply.
“Yes, you expect me to, don’t you?”
I gesture towards the television. “I’ll do it in a moment. This match is on the edge of a knife.”
“I’ll take care of it,” she states. “But please, at least put the hedge trimmer back where it belongs.”
“Sure,” I say, contemplating how I should install a hook for it by the front door.
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