I’m 73, retired, and I live in a wheelchair — but anyone who thinks that means my life has shrunk has never met me.
My little yard is my sanctuary. Within it are two young maples, three evergreen bushes, and a tiny garden that I tend like it’s a beloved child. Even in winter, I’m out there — brushing snow off branches, wrapping tree guards, watching the birds arrive like clockwork.
And then the trash started.
At first it was small — an empty drink can buried in the snow, a greasy takeout bag on the curb. I picked it up quietly, thinking maybe a kid had dropped stuff.
But it didn’t stop.
Plastic forks. Crumpled receipts. Cigarette butts. Garbage piled against my maples, rotting scraps smeared over my pristine white snow. And every time, footprints led straight from my neighbor’s yard to mine.
It was personal.
I watched her one morning — docking her trash at the property line like she owned the place. When I knocked on her door to ask her politely to stop, she didn’t even pretend to care.
“It’s just trash,” she said.
“You’re outside all the time anyway. Clean it up.”
That was it. The moment my patience died.
But I didn’t get angry. I got smart.
I grabbed my phone and started photographing the mess every single day — the wrappers, the footprints, the trash left where it didn’t belong. I printed the best shots, labeled them by date, and made a neat stack. On top, I placed a note:
“Hey, Tom — I think your tenant misunderstands what curbside pickup means. See attached.”
Tom was the owner of the rental house next door — an old friend from childhood whose parents once lived right across from mine. Within minutes, he called me back.
“She’s on a month‑to‑month lease,” Tom said, voice tight. “If she disrespects you and the property, she has to go.”
I printed a second copy of the photos, slipped it into a plain box with the note on top, then rolled down the drive and delivered it to her.
She opened the door, looked at the tiny box, and sneered — until she saw what was inside.
The photos of her dumping trash. The footprints in the snow. The dates. Her own footprints, unmistakable.
Her eyes went wide. “Where did you get these?” she hissed.
“Right here,” I said calmly. “It’s your yard care clause, your lease, and your behavior all documented.”
Within days, boxes started stacking on her porch. The rental truck backed up. And when I stepped outside the next morning, for the first time in weeks, it didn’t smell like garbage. It smelled like quiet. Like peace. Like my yard again.
I may be old. I may be in a wheelchair.
But I’m not anyone’s trash collector.
And if someone treats my garden like a dumpster?
I still have enough energy left to take out the trash.
