Chapter 2 - DALE’S TREE
We had lived beside Dale for two years.
He had been difficult almost immediately.
Not dangerous.
Not openly vicious.
Just territorial in a way that made ordinary neighborhood life exhausting.
Our first week in the house, he knocked because Rob’s trash bins were twelve inches too close to his driveway.
A month later, he complained that our sprinkler mist occasionally crossed the fence.
When Maya received a small trampoline for her fifth birthday, Dale stood on his porch measuring the distance between it and the property line.
He did not have children at home.
His wife had died several years earlier.
His adult daughter lived in Arizona.
Most days, Dale seemed to treat his yard as both kingdom and occupation.
The apple tree was his favorite subject.
“Oldest tree on the block,” he told Rob when we moved in.
“Been here thirty-five years.”
He pruned it himself.
Sprayed it.
Collected the apples.
Once, I saw him polish several before carrying them inside.
The first autumn after we moved in, Maya picked up two apples that fell into our yard.
Dale spotted her.
“Those are mine.”
I had been nearby.
I handed them back.
Not because I believed he was necessarily right.
Because arguing over two apples felt absurd.
After that, I told Maya:
“Ask before taking anything from the tree.”
She did.
But late that summer, the crop became enormous.
Dozens of apples dropped on our side every week.
Some rotted before I found them.
Yellow jackets gathered.
One bruised apple landed inches from Leo while he was drawing with chalk.
I mentioned it to Dale.
“Could you prune the branches back a little?”
His expression hardened.
“You’re allowed to trim what crosses your property line if you do it correctly.”
“I’d rather coordinate so we don’t hurt the tree.”
“You touch that tree, we’re going to have a problem.”
So I didn’t.
Instead I cleaned up fallen fruit.
Every morning.
Every afternoon.
Bag after bag.
I threw most of it into our compost pickup because many apples were damaged.
Dale objected to that too.
“You’re throwing away my property.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“Put them over the fence.”
I laughed because I assumed he was joking.
He wasn’t.
After that, I left a small basket near the fence and occasionally placed intact apples in it.
That compromise lasted three weeks.
Then Dale began checking the basket.
Counting.
“How many fell today?”
“I have no idea.”
“There should be more.”
“Dale, I have a job.”
“So do I.”
“You’re retired.”
That ended the conversation.
Rob told me I was spending too much emotional energy on a fruit tree.
He was right.
Then Dale called our children thieves.
That changed the problem.
May you like
I did not care enough about apples to fight.
I cared very much about an adult man using shame to control children standing in their own yard.
