My head sounds like that

When I moved here last summer, the little flower bed in front of my condo had been tended by my next-door neighbor, Margaret.  Nothing extravagant, but she'd put a few annuals in so it looked lived in, and put some plastic edging around it, which is useful when the earth is a couple of inches higher than the abutting sidewalk.  She said she never gets anything fancy, just whatever they have at Big Lots; it usually gets broken when the snow gets plowed in the winter.  This year, mine survived the winter pretty much intact, but it didn't want to stay in place, since the molded-in "stakes" are only about an inch and a half long.  So last week, I took my trowel and pushed the dirt back from the sidewalk and buried the bottom inch or so of the edging itself right up against the sidewalk, then smooshed the dirt on the other side so it held it in place, and pounded it in a little further with the back of the trowel for good measure.  I knocked on Margaret's door to ask whether the two frog figurines were hers; they were not, but she said she'd return them to the lender.  She admired my edging, which looks quite sharp with the white rocks behind it, and said she should do the same burying of the edging on her plot sometime. I did a few other neatening things, and then it started to sprinkle, and the rain was supposed to start in earnest any time now, and I was cold, so I came in.

But then the rain didn't come, and I warmed up, so I went back out and did the same thing to her edging as I'd done to mine.  I felt kind of guilty, like I was intruding; I know I've been possessive of gardens I've done in the past, but I also know that other people don't have the same territoriality, so I overrode my guilt and fixed the edging, and just dealt with the combination of pride at a good deed and a good job, and guilt at imposing.  Well, I usually feel an amorphous, free-floating guilt anyway, so at least now it had a reason.

Last night, when I got home, there was an envelope taped to my front door, the size of a greeting card.  My immediate, instinctual reaction was, "Oh, shit, I've done something wrong and someone's pissed at me."  Really, that's what I think when I see a note on my door.  Not a little Post-it or plain folded sheet of paper, but even something that's obviously a greeting card, a harbinger of good will.  "They're couching it in politeness, but they are still pissed at me."  

I brought the envelope in, put off opening it for a few minutes while I put stuff away, and finally took out the card.  It will come as no great shock to anyone but me that it said, "Thank you so much for fixing the edging in my garden! That was very thoughtful and I appreciate it. -- Margaret"

The advantage to fearing the worst is that you are often pleasantly surprised.  I am smiling all over again 24 hours later.