I had some time to kill this afternoon, so I went driving around on roads I’ve never been on. I turned at the first chance I got, and checked the sign at the intersection. Fields Street.
Fields Street was not in a good part of town. The houses had missing roof shingles, cracked windows, weedy lawns. And the cars in the driveways were scratched up and spare tired. But as I kept cruising along, I noticed a trend. The further down I went, the nicer the houses got. Those lawns became greener. Eventually flowers appeared — tulips first, then roses. There were welcoming mats. Cars turned from clunkers missing mufflers to used sedans and crossovers.
Then I crossed the line.
It was a three-way intersection with Henry Street. There were doctors' offices and a bank down that way. As I came up to the stop sign, I was gobbled up in the shadow of a meter-thick wall of hedges 15-feet high. The wall went down Henry Street, skipped the intersection, and continued into the neighborhood.
Hedges like these are not grown on accident. They are not ornamental, or trimmed into funny shapes. Hedges like these are intended to keep things out; they are living fences. You only see them where a chainlink, possibly barbed wire tipped, fence would be considered an eyesore.
I drove past the intersection, and lo and behold, there were more houses past the hedges. But these were different. Compared to the land beyond the hedges, this place was alien. The houses were multi-story, with two garages and swimming pools in the back. In the driveways were waxed Accords, Grand Cherokees (the new ones), and slightly worn minivans. I pulled into a cul-de-sac. There was a dad mowing his lawn, clad in an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and a sweaty white T-shirt.
A basketball hoop stood in the middle of the cul-de-sac. Faded, rained on basketballs were tucked under the goal. I parked on the curb, hopped out, and grabbed a ball. I squared my shoulders, shot, follow through, and swish. The ball bounced away.
I got back in my car, and drove back the way I came. I stopped at the hedges. They stood there, unwavering, night and day, rain and shine. They had to. That was their job. That was why they were planted there; that was why they exist. To stay there, and to never move, and to never let anything past.
The people who live here like having those hedges. They keep out the people who live beyond them, because this is what they decided. The ones who go to private school live on one side of the hedges, and the ones who go to public school live on the other side. The ones who go on vacation to Hawaii live on one side, and the ones who never go on vacation live on the other. This is how it is. These are the rules. And the hedges continue to grow.
