Scorched Earth

“Happiness obtained by taking away the happiness of others is built on rocky ground. It will neither last nor grow.“

As someone who has lived much of her life waiting for the other shoe to drop, I shouldn’t be as surprised as I am by the depth of pain caused when “it” did.

You have to shake your head at the stealth, speed and secrecy with which the lot beside us was razed this week. I later realized it is part of the construction game.

Move fast. Destroy everything (scorched earth policy). Give your enemies (who in this case are their neighbors) no time or opportunity to consult or react.

In a capitalistic society, community doesn’t matter. In fact, people working together in community dulls the edge of capitalism. Capitalists don’t push the agenda that people can actually get more out of life by working and sharing together when they do.

We humbly approached the owners, in a state of great distress, about buying their lot. Their response was swift and decisive. They didn’t say no, but set an asking price so high, they might just as well have. I am all about profit but it was clear this was way above reason and fair market value. It was designed to deflect us. (I told you they were good at this.)

We are heartbroken and over this past week have watched a dream we saved and planned for our entire lives disappear. When I met him walking his dog, our younger next door neighbor was similarly shaken and did a sharp intake of breath when he talked about the owls in the forest.

He said they had calmed him before bed each night. Since their habitat has been destroyed, they have not returned. They disappeared after the trees were taken down. Our young neighbor is confused and upset over why this had to happen to him in his very back yard so soon after the purchase of his first house. Like us, he closed in May, too.

The owners of the building lot are happy though. Full of dreams and plans. They tell us they are looking forward to making memories with their kids. It is clear it hasn’t occurred to them (or they simply don’t care which is my husband’s take) that they have diminished and destroyed the happiness and dreams of several other people around them to get there. Neighbors, in fact.

I am not so sure there will be many potlucks when the new house goes in. The entire neighborhood is quietly reeling and seething even though they are not directly affected. There was a shared pride and quiet pleasure in preserving that beautiful old forest. The 97-year-old gentleman across the way will surely miss its comfort and beauty out on his morning walks.

I hate learning about unpleasantness in another person’s character. I also don’t want to ever have anything to do with that type of person. I doubt very few in the neighborhood will either. Our neighbors’ comfort, happiness and peace of mind have been disturbed, too.

And the line of trees at the edge of the property the builder assured would be kept intact to help protect our view? Ya. They’re gone. High marks for consistency.

I sure hope the owners enjoy their new place. They are young yet and it is unlikely their hearts and minds have been too deeply etched with the lessons of loss and humility. Those lessons will come later as they do to us all.

My focus has now turned from personalizing our new house toward calculating the minimum operational requirements to get through the upcoming assault from the build. I am reminded of a story. Of course, I am not drawing any analogies with myself so we are clear.

On the cross at Calvary, Jesus said of his tormentors: “Forgive them. They know not what they do.” I believe this about our soon-to-be neighbors.

They have claimed their own happiness through utter disregard and disrespect not only for their new neighbors but for the ancient and beautiful natural forest that surrounded them. Those trees stood for hundreds of years before any of us came along.

The builder cheerily assured us as part of his “calm the concerned clients” pitch when we first met him: “I’ll be putting in trees 109% when the house is finished.” Next February. Maybe.

I am reminded of a small child who comes into the kitchen to “help Mom” but doesn’t actually know enough to be of much use. The eggs break on the floor. The milk is spilled. Flour everywhere. It’s okay. The little kid is just learning and doesn’t know too much.

Now that analogy is apt.