A Missing 1 Makes All the Difference

In the Army, Pops had been many things, but the skill he used for the rest of his life was surveying.  As a surveyor, he knew the importance of property lines and set corners so he commissioned an independent survey of his new property before putting up the traditional white picket fence Ma had dreamed of.

From the time I can remember, our house was the most beautiful on the block.  Ma’s arched trellis draped with fragrant wisteria decorated the right corner.  Each morning I would lazily meander beneath the arch on the cobblestone pathway, passing the climbing roses as they made their way toward the rooftop.  Depending on the season, the back yard was adorned with daffodils, tulips, zinnias, coreopsis, marigolds, sweet William, moonflower, or mums.  Up along the other side of the house was the herb garden.  After Pops mowed the yard it smelled like a spice shop:  mint, cilantro, rosemary, basil, dill, and chives. 

All that was threatened, however, when Mr. Pratt moved in next door.  Mr. Pratt worked in the records department at the county courthouse.  Days after moving in, he hoisted his corpulent body onto our porch and rapped heavily on the screen door with his fat knuckles. 

Mr. Pratt met Pops’ neighborly smile with a snort.  Without warning, our hefty neighbor shoved a roll of papers in Pops‘ face.  “Take a look at these documents, and then move your fence and all other manifestations of property from my legal real estate!” he cried.

Pops straightened his glasses and held on to the protruding end of the papers to avoid being hit again.  “Would you like to come inside?” he asked calmly.

Mr. Pratt’s multiple chins jiggled with rage and he turned purple, as if someone was constricting his airway.  “No, I don’t want to come in,” he bellowed.  “I want you to look at these documents and remove your property from off my real estate!”

Pops raised his eyebrow and cleared his throat.  “Wait right here and I will return momentarily.”  Pops went to his desk and I could hear him grumbling as he sifted through a file of papers.  “Ah ha,” he exclaimed triumphantly.

Back at the door he held his paper out to Mr. Pratt.  “What’s that?” the neighbor asked snobbishly.  “I have here the original survey which was done when these houses were build.  I am going to abide by what it says.”

“I had this survey done the week we moved in,” Pops countered.  “What are we talking about?  Inches?”

Mr. Pratt threw his hands in the air so quickly I expected his papers to come unfurled and flutter away on the breeze.  “’Inches?’” he raged.  “This is far more than inches, you foolish fraudulent cheat!”  In over-dramatic exasperation he flopped into the metal patio chair and lay back panting heavily.

Pops could abide the snooty pompous attitude Mr. Pratt displayed but name-calling was another thing entirely.  Crossing his arms, he looked down his nose at the trespasser and in a stern voice replied, “I’d thank you to remove yourself from my front porch.”  His glare showed he meant business and, as Mr. Pratt slowly extricated his rotund body from the creaking chair, he added, “Don’t ever use such language in front of my children again.”

“You’ve not heard the last of me,” Mr. Pratt threatened, waving his fist full of papers. 

We awoke early the next morning to the sound of machinery.  “Pops, come quick!” I shouted, looking out my bedroom window. 

Mr. Pratt had removed the fence and trellis and was digging out the cobbled pathway.

“You need to stop that right now,” Pops demanded.

“I will not,” Mr. Pratt growled.  “Get off my land, trespasser!”  Mr. Pratt’s arm drew back and his plump fist shot forward, impacting Pops’ jaw.

“Call the police,” Pops said, seeing me in the window. 

“This matter will have to be decided in court,” the police officer said after looking at both surveys.  “One of these is not right, and I believe it is yours, Mr. Pratt.  Why would all of the houses around here have eleven feet of yard on three sides except this one?  Be reasonable.”

Mr. Pratt snorted at the officer and stuck his nose in the air.  “I have the original survey.  I can’t explain why they did it, but that’s what it says:  ‘1.1 feet’.”

The officer rolled his eyes.  “I guess you’ll need to go to court, then,” he said apologetically to Pops.  “Do you want to press charges for assault?”

Pops rubbed his sore jaw but shook his head.

Until the case was decided, Mr. Pratt had to stop tearing up our yard.    We had never been to court before so Pops let Pete and I take a day off from school to attend.

“After complete examination of the documents I find that an error has indeed been made; not by the original surveyors or those who came later, but by you, Mr. Pratt.  Common sense should have told you that the property line could not be a mere 1.1 feet from the house.  Looking closely at the survey you presented, I found the problem.  The ‘11’ was written close to the drawn property line and, over the years, the ink spread on the vellum and covered the first ‘1’.  Had you been as vigilant at looking at the survey of your own property and not that of your neighbor’s, you would have seen that yours, too, says 11.1 feet, not 21.1 as it would have to be for your allegation to be correct.”

Mr. Pratt’s face turned every shade of pink, red and purple before the color drained.

“I hereby rule in favor of the Penns and order that Mr. Pratt return their property to its original state or be charged with destruction of property and vandalism.  Next time, Mr. Pratt, look at all information available to you, not just that which says what you want it to say.”

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