I’m 73, retired, and in a wheelchair. Most people look at me and my little yard and think my world has shrunk. That it’s sad, lonely, small. They don’t get it.
That yard? That yard is my whole world.
It’s where I breathe. Where I feel alive. Where I show the world, in my own quiet way, that I’m still here.
I’ve got two young maples in the front, three fat old evergreens along the side, and a little garden I fuss over like it’s a newborn. Even in winter, I’m out there. I wrap the trees to keep them from splitting in the cold.
Brush snow off the evergreens so the branches don’t snap. Salt the paths in neat, careful lines. Fill the bird feeder every morning. Finches and cardinals come like clockwork, like they know someone cares.
And then it started.
At first, it was small.
An empty energy drink can half-buried in the snow. A greasy takeout bag dumped carelessly on my porch. A wad of napkins stuck to my shrubs. I grumbled, picked it up, and told myself some teenager had dropped it.
But it kept happening.
Plastic forks. Crumpled receipts. Cigarette butts. Always near the property line with the rental house next door. Always from the same person.
A few months back, a young woman moved in there. Late twenties, maybe.
Nice car, nice clothes, nice phone. But not-so-nice attitude. She was loud, always on speakerphone. Music blaring, voice blaring. Acting like the sidewalks belonged to her. No wave. No “hi.” Just a look like I was a lawn ornament.
I kept picking up the trash. Quietly. By morning, my yard looked like a postcard again. Not because I was scared. Because I’ve lived long enough to know some fights aren’t worth the blood pressure.
Then one winter night, snow fell. Thick, quiet, perfect. By morning, my yard looked like a postcard—white and untouched. Except someone had dumped an entire trash can under my two young maples.
Rot and sour beer hit the cold winter air. Coffee grounds, wet paper towels, food scraps, sticky wrappers, chicken bones, something dark and slimy I didn’t touch. It splattered the tree guards like paint.
I followed the footprints in the snow—straight from her side gate to my trees and back. No doubt who did it. My patience, which had been stretched thin, snapped.
I rolled right to her front door. Knocked.
After a minute, the door opened a crack. She stood there in leggings and a cropped hoodie, hair in a messy bun, phone in her hand. Didn’t even say hello.
“It’s all over my yard,” I said.
She squinted at me like I’d woken her from a nap.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Morning,” I said. “I need to talk to you about your trash.”
“My what?”
“The trash,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “It’s all over my yard. Under my trees. I can see your footprints in the snow.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s outside,” she said. “Relax. It’s just trash. Clean it up.”
I clenched my fists. She smirked.
“I take care of that yard,” I said. “Those trees are young. You can’t just dump—”
“Oh my God,” she laughed. “Are you serious? What are you, like, the garden police?”
“It’s my property, and I keep it clean,” I said.
She leaned on the doorframe. Looked me up and down. Then down at my wheelchair. Smiled sharp. “You’re out there every day anyway,” she said. “Rolling around, poking the dirt. You act like your little yard is a full-time job.”
“It is my job,” I said. “It’s how I stay—”
“Yeah, yeah,” she waved. “Look, Grandpa, you’re retired. You’ve got all the time in the world. If my trash bothers you, clean it up.”
“You heard me,” I said.
She smiled. “What’s so bad about taking out my trash too?”
I laughed. Not proud of it, but… “Come again?”
“You heard me,” she said. “You’re bored. You’re outside anyway. Just take my trash with yours. Win-win.”
I took a breath. Then another. Then a smile crept across my face—not a friendly smile. The “this conversation is over” smile.
I rolled back home.
Of course. You think I’d just let it slide.
See, she didn’t know one thing: the owner of that rental house, Tom, is my oldest friend. We grew up together. Built treehouses, broke his mom’s dishes playing football inside. He loves that house and this street. He keeps in touch.
I wheeled into my little office, made a sandwich, then pulled out my folder. Photos. Dates. Trash. Footprints in the snow. A growing trash photo album. I printed the best in color, slid them into a neat stack. On top, a note:
“Hey, Tom. Hate to bug you, but I think your tenant misunderstands what ‘curbside pickup’ means. See attached. – J.”
Ten minutes later, he called.
“She’s on a month-to-month lease,” he said.
“Tell me this is a joke,” I said.
“Wish I could,” he said. “You’ve been cleaning this up for weeks?”
“Didn’t want to bother you. Thought maybe it would stop.”
“She signed a clause about yard care. I’m calling her as soon as I get home.”
Minutes later, I rolled back next door. She opened the door halfway, phone in hand.
“I brought you a little gift,” I said.
“Oh my God, again?” she said.
“I wanted to apologize,” I said. “For earlier. You were right. I shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of it. And…” I held up the box, “I brought you a little gift. To smooth things over.”
She snatched it. “Whatever,” she said, shutting the door.
I rolled back to my window with a cold beer. Watched.
It didn’t take long. Her door slammed open. Red face. Box crushed in hand. Phone in the other.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?!”
“Morning,” I said. “Something wrong with the gift?”
“It’s just trash!” she screamed. “My landlord says I have to be out by the end of the week! He says he’s calling the cops if I dump anything else on your property! You got me EVICTED?”
“Yes,” I said.
She blinked. Didn’t expect that. “Are you insane? It’s just trash!”
I handed her the photos. “It’s my yard,” I said. “And your signature on a lease.”
She shook the crushed box. “Some kind of threat?”
“No,” I said. “You set yourself up when you dumped garbage on my trees. I just… wrapped it nicely.”
She glared. Then stomped off, screaming into her phone. Doors slammed. Boxes moved. Friends came and went. Chaos.
But fresh snow fell each night. And Friday afternoon, a truck pulled away. Her blinds open, her windows empty. Quiet again.
Next morning, I rolled outside. For the first time in weeks, no smell of garbage. Just snow. Just my maples, my evergreens, my peace. A cardinal shook a puff of snow from a branch above me.
I sat there, breathing in the cold, crisp air. I may be 73. I may be in a wheelchair. But I am not anyone’s trash collector.
Unless I choose to be.
And if you try to turn my garden into a dumpster?
Well… I still have enough energy left to take out the trash.