Home, to me, is a beautiful word.
It conjures a feeling of peace deep in my soul when I enter its doors, lay down the armload of things I inevitably seem to be carrying (why is that?) and drape myself across the sofa with Baxter ever present by my side. Ahhh, nesting is indeed my choice of intoxicants.
Since our house sold in late March, Baxter and I have been living in temporary accommodations in downtown Bentonville awaiting our Plan Q to come to life.
You know, Plan Q, which was not our Plan A, B or C and which caused me great angst in the beginning but turns out to be better than the other plans combined. Plan Q ultimately meets everything I wanted and then some, just not in the manner I thought.
In the meantime, Baxter and I have been enjoying the Mayberry-feel of downtown Bentonville. We’re doing the things we said we’d do once we downsized into a walkable community.
We stroll in the evenings. We talk to neighbors on the street. We bark at squirrels (OK, Bax usually does that, but I can’t say I won’t join him someday since he assures me it’s great fun).
Then, Sunday night, my Mayberry changed.
The screen was pried open. Three layers of glass shattered everywhere. They crawled through the window, over the sofa and into my sanctuary. They went through drawers. They handled childhood mementos. They took things. They left the door ajar.
Neighbors called and texted me. They couldn’t find me, and when I didn’t readily answer, their worry increased exponentially with each passing minute. Police were called. Crime scene investigators dusted black powder over everything.
My nest had been invaded.
I ran on nothing but adrenaline for hours. My fervent need to fix things kicked in. I cleaned. I cleaned things they’d touched; I cleaned things they hadn’t touched. I sought order where there was none.
Slowly, fewer people were around. Folks went back to their days. The police went to trace serial numbers and process fingerprints.
Pops Sumrall, one of the dearest men to ever grace my world, boarded up the window and swept glass with me, then left as I assured him I was fine. Night fell on our Monday, and soon, Bax and I were left to our own devices as usual.
Except, it wasn’t usual. Nothing is usual.
I’m angry, thankful, unnerved and everything in between. I have a few choice words about the cowardice that goes into violently breaking into someone else’s place under the cover of darkness, but they aren’t suitable for newsprint.
I was supposed to have a meeting Monday with Travis from city planning about utilities for Plan Q, but I cancelled given the more pressing situation of burglary and general mayhem. We rescheduled for Wednesday. Tuesday afternoon, Mayor Bob McCaslin called to happily report two men had been apprehended. Most of my property had been recovered, and I’d get it back someday. The details weren’t discussed.
Wednesday morning, Travis came to see me. Before discussing the utility issues, he said, “You know, I had my own run in with police this week.” He related the story of how his iPad disappeared the previous day. The city’s IT department was able to send a signal and track the iPad’s location. He called police. Suddenly, the iPad’s signal began to move. It was headed down a nearby street!
Travis and his co-workers got in the car and began to follow the signal. They noticed a man walking with a backpack. Police went to the other end of the street as Travis and the city’s IT employees drove nearby. They pinged the iPad again to set off an alarm. The man immediately stopped and began searching the backpack. Police swarmed in.
“And there was not only my iPad, but also …” and Travis began reciting a list of property, most of which was mine.
We stared at each other as we began to realize how, unbeknown to us, our worlds had intersected.
Later that day, we broke ground on Plan Q, a lovely 900-square-foot loft with a garage and courtyard behind my office in the heart of downtown Bentonville. I could choose to sear my heart and be filled with fear and trepidation, and mind you, I’ll be ever more vigilant in the future.
But this is still my Mayberry. Those cowards do not deserve the attention.
The attention should rest on wonderful neighbors who discovered the scene and checked on me, on the genuine concern of officials, friends and strangers alike, on our city’s finest who apprehended the suspects and on Travis, who became Sherlock Holmes on a run-of-the-mill Tuesday.
Even Mayberry had a jailhouse.
LISA KELLEY IS A WRITER, MASTER GARDENER, ANIMAL LOVER AND ALL-AROUND GOOD OL’ SOUTHERN GAL WHO ALSO HAPPENS TO PRACTICE LAW AND MEDIATE CASES IN DOWNTOWN BENTONVILLE.