Plantnapping in Franklin, New Hampshire

"Have thieves no conscience? No love of beauty ... the plants were powerless I tell you!"

06/30/2008

To Whom It May Concern,
I realize that the mere action of writing this letter is in vain, as the individual(s) who perpetrated the heinous crime on my poor unsuspecting plants undoubtedly is illiterate, and thereby will not read of my outrage. All this being said, I share this letter as a warning to other unsuspecting homeowners in the greater Franklin area … beware, there is a thief amongst us … even in my “nice” neighborhood.

Let me introduce myself. I’m a mom. I have three boys. Yes, three boys. My husband and I assumed we were “finished” after two boys, and I gave up the dream of a daughter … then we found out we were pregnant. Yep, God in his wisdom and unrighteous sense of humor, sent us another son. Even our family dog is a boy. No longer is my life about parenting, it is more about crowd control. Being the mother of three boys, my day consists of phrases like, “put your brother down … leave the dog alone … wait until I talk to your Dad about this one … have you lost your mind, and, no, torturing your brother is NOT okay.”

There are few small pleasures in my life. I endure taking all three, yes three, of my boys to the store. Rarely, if ever, have I gotten everything on my carefully prepared list as I try to get down aisle after aisle without my darling boys killing one another, ripping the carefully organized store shelves to shreds, or generally acting like the poster children for birth control. Often, I stare the other direction hoping people won’t realize they belong to me … but, the town is small, Hannaford is smaller, and the word is out. All three of them, the boys that act like ferrets on crack whenever exposed to the public, are mine.

Given my particular situation (the three boys and all) I have few pleasures. In an effort to stay in fighting form to referee any disputes throughout the average day, I wake up at 5:30 a.m. every day and do one thing I hate and one thing I enjoy. First, I run. I hate running. But, I do it. I do it because I know if I don’t the day will be long, my boys might get the upper hand, and my husband would make a lousy single parent. So, I run. I don’t think about things, my lungs are on fire, and I hate every moment, but all the same, every morning, I run because at the end of my run I know there is a reward. For every minute of running (30 all together), I get one minute for my secret passion … gardening.

You see, when you are a mother of three boys, gardening is a quiet haven. To me, gardening is the small distance between sanity and insanity that separates my day. Despite my relatively young age, I AM the crazy lady that talks to her plants and is visibly shaken when her spring bulbs are tainted by a late spring thaw. I spend hours cleaning flower beds, weeding, fertilizing, planting, and arranging various flowers, plants, and herbs to create that perfect asthetic curb appeal. I get literally giddy at the sight of a flowering bulb, or the first little bud indicating virility in my vegetable garden. I get 30 minutes a day, uninterrupted, to create my own little utopia … free of boys.

I (heart) my flowers ... there is REAL love there ... hello flowers!"
Sunday morning my utopia was defiled. Yes, defiled. My small pleasure in life … no longer. Early Sunday morning as I walked out the front door I knew something was “off”. Initially, I couldn’t put my finger on what was “off”, but I knew something was wrong. Suddenly, I realized what was off … or gone as the case may be. My planter. Yep, the carefully designed square planter with the smaller planter inside boasting the carefully placed English Ivy that I was training to follow the handmade hangar wrapped in gardening tape … was gone. On first glance, I wanted to think that perhaps this was a cruel hoax. After all, this was one of two matching planters sitting on my front porch, and taking one planter would obviously be a noticeable prank. The remaining planter looked sullen, alone, and missing it’s matching counterpart. The yin to it’s yang, the black to it’s white, the balancing decorating motif between left and right, gone. I naively assumed that this must be a hoax because only a DEDICATED and PURPOSEFUL thief would STEAL a 40+ lb planter with various plants. Home Depot and Lowes leave their plants out at night … I think they are safe … why shouldn’t my front porch be as sacred as the parking lot of the local nursery?!

My house, my plants ... my respite ... ho-hum.
I was unable to discover the whereabouts of my planter, despite sending the local street gang (a group of neighborhood boys whom I have befriended following the analogy of keeping your enemies close, and yes, my boys are part of this group) on their scooters, tricycles, and “magged out” bicycles to root out the plant thief and bring them to me. There have been clues … but the planter thief remains at large. I spent most of Sunday depressed and missing my poor little planter. I reminisced about the spring day I filled it with fresh potting soil and new annuals hoping that THIS year would be the year the English Ivy actually grew to maturity before the winter snow. But now, I will never know.

Monday morning I wanted to start fresh. I planned a trip to the local nursery, hoping I could find another matching planter and reinvent the carefully balanced dual décor ruined by the theft of my matching planter. To my horror … another planter, gone. This time it was a hanging basket. The cute little hanging basket that greets people when they drive into my driveway and walk down the walkway to the front porch … THAT hanging basket. The hanging basket that was once such a welcoming sight to visitors and friends has now become the lackluster victim of a plantnapping. Laugh if you will … I called the Franklin police after the second plantnapping. While the uniformed officer that was sent to my home to take a statement maintained a sense of decorum (let’s be honest here, I was calling about plants being kidnapped, how he maintained without laughing his head off of beyond me). I even offered to let him laugh as I was asked to give a detailed description of my kidnapped planters. “Yes, officer, it was a square planter with an English Ivy, very distinct, just like its twin on the front porch … yes, the basket was a black wired hanging basket with little leaves peaking through the sides…yes, I know, those planters ARE expensive!” The officer had me estimate the total cost of said stolen planters and I almost had to hold back tears thinking, “really, is there a replacement for my love?”

I asked the officer exactly WHAT the trespassing laws were in Franklin, New Hampshire and how many years I would have to do in the state pen if I took matters into my own hands? For instance, if the plantnapper presented themselves at an opportune moment, say 2 a.m., stealing another planter from my yard, and I happened to greet them with Jon’s rifle and some housewife indignant rage, how sympathetic WOULD the New Hampshire legal system be? Apparently, all I have to do is put a “No Trespassing” sign on my lawn … then I can shoot at will.

Alright, laugh if you will … but take note. SOMEONE in Franklin, New Hampshire has taken to plantnapping and WHEN not IF I find them, I will make them pay dearly. Yes, I have professional “make your life hell” training. As a mom of three boys, I daily walk a fine line with my sanity … and I have “anger”, as my 5 year-old will attest. If you have any information in regards to the Franklin, NH plantnapper, please contact me immediately … and watch your plants.

Still Disgruntled,
cortney

Transplanted Yankee ... by Cortney Eldridge

Dear Friend,

How is North Dakota? I understand your sister wants to leave the snow for good and move to New Hampshire? Concerning your sister’s plan, here is one transplant’s experience. I married a Yankee. Not a New York Yankee (perish the thought), a Yankee. A Yankee who despite our 13 years of living all over the world via his military career, still claims that New England is the center of the universe. Like your sister, my first trip to New England was in the fall. The weather is crisp, the leaves are gorgeous, and the orchards are loaded with every apple known to the western world. New Hampshire looks like something directly out of a Land’s End commercial. I admit it, New England is beautiful. Who wouldn’t want to live here year round? I too was lulled into a sense of it would be so great to live in New England so we packed our west coast children and made the cross country move. After three years of living amongst the Yankees, let me see if I can provide an accurate portrait of New England weather. There lurks a sinister side of this New England Camelot living referred to as … the “rest” of the year.

September and October are gorgeous months in New England … even mid to late August is nice if you are from the west coast where August is sweltering. Every small town and village boasts weekend fairs and antique shows. The locals are very kind, (even if they only use 25 letters of the alphabet, do they not teach the letter “R” in New England schools?) and there is a culinary delicacy called a “lobster roll” that you have to try. From November until that dark and fiery underground place freezes over (or New England, whichever comes first) there is snow. I grew up with the rocky mountain range in my backyard. I know snow, my home state is even famous for its particular type of powdery snow! I even like snow … until I met New England snow. It’s the humidity. Winter sports I love, like skiing, become hazardous entertainment as you maneuver down ice slopes, no powder here. The kids enjoy sledding and tubing … but I make them wear helmets. Have you ever felt a humid cold? It’s unlike anything ever experienced. I spend October – May cold. I mean cold, sitting in the house cuddled by the heater and still cold. Right now I am in sweat pants, thigh high baseball socks, two t-shirts, a sweatshirt, and the space heater is on high …still cold. The weather bites right through you and there is no thaw until March or April.

Just when the spring bulbs start to peek out of hiding (along with the local population who has been trapped inside all winter) the thaw happens rapidly from so much snow that we enter what New Englanders refer to as “mud season”. Mud season is exactly what it sounds like. I had cute shoes before living in New England. I had cute little sandals, sliders, pumps … I now have a pair of green and tan duck boots that I wear 10 months of the year. They work in the snow and the mud, which magically follows my children into my house, garage, car (my truck has not seen a good clean since we moved here, I gave up fighting the mud and snow) The mud is deep, and it’s everywhere. Your car will eventually get stuck, despite the “extra” 4 wheel drive package you paid handsomely for at the dealership. And if you don’t get stuck in mud, you might just accidentally get stuck in the thick fog and run over a moose, deer or escape housewife fleeing for their lives to the southern states during said winter months.

However, the mud eventually hardens, and we enter beautiful New England summers. New Hampshire in particular boasts beautiful, crisp mountain lakes for water recreation, amazing outdoor activities for the whole family, and local fairs with crafters from around the world. It is beautiful, it is entertaining … but remember the mud from the spring thaw? That same mud has provided a literal orgy of virility for every known species of “black fly”, “horse fly”, and “mosquito”. When I first moved to New England, I was swarmed at my son’s baseball practice. I foolishly referred to the swarm around my head as gnats. We have gnats out west, they are annoying, but harmless. My native New England neighbor warned me that these gnats bite. I didn’t believe her, these were gnats! Suddenly and without warning, the swarm attacked. New England gnats bite. I don’t care what you call them, they all bite, they are all the same, none of them are merciful (even to the chubby unsuspecting thighs of my newborn), and all of them potentially carry some sort of nasty virus.

The humidity during the day is bearable, it’s only about 80-90 degrees or so, but just when the sun starts to set and you think you can sit on your porch, go for a swim, or even have a bbq with friends, everyone disappears into their homes to avoid the swarms of “gnats”. We go through gallons of bug spray in the summer … and I mean gallons. I have tried coils, burners, swatters, zappers and even entertained hiring a voodoo expert. Nothing works. My hair is consistently frizzy from the humidity, I am covered in “gnat” bites, and usually sunburned because the low temperatures lull you into a security that it isn’t really “that hot”. Just when the swarms end (August), there is usually one good week where you can be outside, swarm free, and not freezing.

After having survived your first New England winter you swear you will flee the state before living through another. All Summer you plan your new life living further south or west, whichever the case may be (wherever there are no biting gnats). You might even put your house on the market with a serious intention to sale, and sale cheap! But one crisp fall morning you wake up and smell the faintest apple blossoms in the air. Ahh, Fall apple harvest. Your kids beg you to take them to the local farm to pet the animals, take a hayride, and pick some famous New England apples. As the day ends, and you find yourself putting the final touches on a homemade apple pie, while the television blares the New England Patriots season opener. You take a heavy sigh, and your plans to move are replaced by amnesiac memory of all that is good about New England and you realize another year in New England can’t be that bad. After all, these apples are delicious!

Love,
Your Transplanted Yankee

UNO Pizzaria New Hampshire ...

In case you cannot read the below scanned letter, I have "translated" changing none of the spelling or grammar so that you can get the full emotional impact of the "UNO Pizzaria" incident. Yes, in a nutshell, (or fingernail) I ordered a pasta dish there called Spinoccoli. The serving was huge, so I took the remainder home to eat the next day. I warmed it up, took a big bite out of it, and pulled a fingernail (not mine, mind you, and not like a lee press on nail., someone's literal bit off and chewed fingernail) from between my teeth. I called UNO to express my "displeasure" and this was my response letter. Uh, yeah. I can laugh about it now. Just another reason I love this place!

"Dear Courtney Eldridge (notice the wrong name spelling), I wouuld first like to apologize to you for finding a finger nail insiide your left over spinnocolis. i can understand that feeling you must have had. We at UNO's strive for 100% cleanliness and sanitation but we missed out on this opportunity. Our standard when it come to food preperation is above and beyond what the state of New Hampshire is, but we failed. I myself has taken it that all of the kitchen staff from the dishwashers to the line cook wear gloves at all times. This is also a compamy policy that we failed to achieve that day. I know it will be tough to come back to our location but enclosed is a $40.00 gift vard good any any UNO location. Again our deepest apology and I hope you give us here in Tilton another try as we strive to be the best in our class."