They say still waters run deep, but no one expected the tsunami that followed when Derek destroyed my pond. For fifteen years, that little oasis had been my sanctuary – until I returned from my niece’s wedding to find it filled with gravel.
Mrs. Carter met me in the driveway, her hands fluttering like the dragonflies we’d lost. “He had papers, Agnes! Official-looking ones!” she cried. I didn’t need to ask who “he” was. Derek’s campaign against my “frog infestation” was neighborhood legend.
Thank goodness for tech-savvy grandkids. The wildlife camera my grandson installed last Christmas had captured everything – Derek paying the crew, pointing where to dump, even high-fiving them when they finished. I made copies before calling my first ally: the state environmental board.
“Those weren’t just frogs,” I explained sweetly. “Those were endangered Appalachian chorus frogs.” The resulting fine made Derek’s hairline recede another inch.
Then came the civil suit from my nephew’s firm. But the piece de resistance? Showing Linda the footage over chamomile tea. “He told me the health department condemned it!” she gasped.
Two weeks later, I woke to the beautiful sound of earthmovers – restoring, not destroying. Linda oversaw every detail, even adding a little waterfall feature Derek would hate. These days, the pond’s more beautiful than ever, Linda’s my best friend, and Derek’s learning the hard way that you don’t mess with a retired librarian with time to research revenge.
