When my husband and I sold our house on the East Side a few years ago and hoofed it to the North Shore, the hubby wanted to dig up and take a few of the perennial flowers the original owner of the house had planted over the decades since 1947 when the house was built. The flower garden stretched from the street alongside the house to the back garage. The few years we lived on East 39th, we marvelled at all the variety of flowers that bloomed at different times of the year and were grateful the original owner loved flowers and gardening.
He agreed.
It turns out the new owners didn’t quite appreciate the flower garden as much as we did. When we drove past our old house a few months after we sold it, we noticed the flowers had all been removed and the long strip of garden replanted with grass.
No one would ever describe me as a green thumb, but I enjoy working in the garden and value every plant and flower that was planted before and after we moved into our new house. I especially like our holly trees. Not only are they festive at this time of year, they provide us with much-needed hedge-like privacy from the street. Without them, people could easily peer into the side window of our living room and see what embarrassing show we’re watching on TV or Netflix, or see me wagging my finger at my kids to tidy up for the hundredth time and perhaps witness some other activities I won’t mention here.
Unfortunately, the holly is thinning. It’s more thick on top than it is at street level so I’m very protective of it.
On Saturday, as Vince Guaraldi’s timeless soundtrack for A Charlie Brown Christmas played in the background and the kids and I were decorating our Douglas Fir Christmas tree, I saw a figure through the window snipping away at our holly tree. I was stunned and stood frozen in place. I didn’t know what to do except call out to my husband upstairs, “Hey, darling, someone just clipped some branches from our holly tree.” (I don’t call my husband “darling” by the way, but always by his first name — and other colourful terms of endearment depending on my mood and the messy state of the house.)
Well, I’ve never seen my darling run down the stairs so fast. He whipped open the front door and bolted to the street in his stockinged feet to see who it was. He saw an older woman with clippers and a bag with holly branches sticking out one end walking quickly away. He didn’t recognize her, but he knew a Holly Bandit when he saw one.
“She had clippers so she came here specifically to take holly,” he said. “Who does that? Who thinks it’s OK to do that? Some older people really do have a sense of entitlement.”
I had to agree with him there actually, recalling instances from my childhood of older people ignoring me in a store line and jumping ahead to fill their order at the bakery or butcher shop. I was always too shy to speak up. (Clearly, I’ve been scarred.)
But I digress. I went to a Christmas party later that night in Vancouver and met an old friend I hadn’t seen in ages who asked about our new home. I gushed — not so much about our wee house, which is just fine, but the neighbourhood. I live in one of the best places on earth not only for the abundance of nature but because people say hello when they pass you on the street and neighbours help neighbours and everyone keeps an eye out for the local kids. It’s especially wondrous at Christmastime with many homes and even boats on the water festooned with bright lights and decorations.
As I drove home from the party, I thought about our Holly Bandit. If someone nicking holly from our trees is the worst thing to happen in our lives, my family and I can count ourselves among the luckiest people on earth. (There is crime in the area, but it’s rare.)
I imagine our holly is now part of a beautiful Christmas wreath or centrepiece. Maybe it’s even being used as a mistletoe substitute.
To the Holly Bandit, I say Happy Christmas. You are a reminder of my good fortune in life.
