I was sitting in the garden at the height of the day Sunday.  It was too hot to work in the sun, so I had my siesta under one of my poodled-up Lilacs.  With one eye open, of course.

And it's a good thing, because just as I kicked back, sort of out of sight from the main drag, I saw a nicely dressed middle aged woman, somebody's mother, no doubt, creeping down the path.  I hate to say it, but this is the type you gotta watch out for.  They love those cut flowers, but they don't want to work for 'em.  And when they stroll through the Victory Gardens, instead of just enjoying the sights and smells of spring, all they see is a free bouquet at every turn. 

They creep down the path, their eyes narrowed, their lips just barely apart, a wolfish hunger about them, stalking their prey.

My neighbor across the way has some delicious rembrandt tulips — maybe five in all — just perfect for a lovely spring bouquet, and, frankly not much else in her little garden at the moment, and I could see the woman circling and circling and finally coming in for the kill. 

She was so focused on the tulips, she didn't see me as she reached the gate, stopped, looked to her right and left and then jiggled the handle, looking around again guiltily when it didn't yield.

She still didn't see me, and after the guilt came a frantic moment where I could tell she was considering how — inconceivably in broad daylight — she might find some other way in.  And as she looked around for — what? A locksmith? A ladder? — she turned toward me and our eyes met. 

If I had been able to vaporize her right then and there with my steely glare I assure you I would have, with no regrets whatsoever.  And ditto for her, glaring back at me.  But come on, what's lower than a garden thief?  Even people who steal the morning newspaper off of other people's stoops (not that I know any — anymore at least) aren't lower than a garden thief. 

And you knew the way she was going about it, she was not going to just snatch one, she was going for the whole bouquet.

And how vile is that? Knowing that someone bought those bulbs, brought them into their sad little garden, tended them until they'd burst forth, and probably planned to put them in a vase on her own dining room table.  

The would-be tulip thief skulked off, glaring back at me like I was the guilty one for having foiled her evil plot.

I was telling another couple gardeners, who have quite possibly the most ravishing garden in the Fenway — one of them is a restaurateur, and all of the little bouquets on all of the tables at his restaurant come from their garden.  He was telling me yesterday that he deals with this sort of thing, not only in the garden, but in the restaurant, all the time. 

The bouquets he puts in the ladies' room never last.  Someone always snatches them. 

Ladies, what part of "lady" don't you understand?

I can see people being all like, well, they're flowers — they're nature's gift, right?  He picked them and put the in a vase. What's wrong with me picking them from the vase and putting them in another vase?  But growing flowers —- I mean the kinds of flowers that end up in vases —- is not quite as simple as just harvesting nature's bounty.  People act like all you have to do is fence in a plot, call it a garden, and all the sudden it's bursting with flowers — or brussels sprouts, or whatever you want.  It ain't magic, bitches.  If it was magic we'd call it magic.  It's called gardening for a reason.

Naturally, he's also dealt with his share of would-be thieves at the garden as well.  His solution is to plant some lovely little flowers outside the fence along the main path so that if folks get grabby they can grab something out there, cleverly diverting them from the premium stock behind the garden gate. 

Still, "all they have to do is ask," he told me, "as long as it's within reason."

He said a young Japanese couple had recently asked if they could cut some daffodils.  He showed them how to cut them properly and told them they could have... ten, I think he said — a specific number is very important — and they went away very grateful.

He had another couple with a child offer to pay him a dollar per flower, like he was Shmedrik the old flower peddler or something.  He politely declined.

We actually had a gardener, a real Shmedrik, who apparently approached another gardener who was working on his hardscaping and asked if he needed some rocks.  Bricks, rocks and paving stones are somewhat precious commodities in the community garden, and we all tend to hoard, I have to say.  But if we see a neighbor in need, we often toss a few over the fence for him.  It's good karma.

My neighbor jumped at the offer, of course.

"A dollar a piece!" the enterprising lad said.

My neighbor, appalled, withered back.  Is tnothing sacred?

You have to be pretty hard up to be peddling rocks you dug up in your garden at a buck a pop.  I understand times are rough, but people: have some dignity.

At least sell them by the pound.

We've had an influx of hard sleepers lately too.  I know: it's like Beyond Thunderdome or something. Tulip thieves and rock mongers  — this is some post-apocalyptic dystopian shit we're dealing with here.

Some of the hard sleepers set up their little encampments in the wee hours far from where the police cruisers are parked, others look for a place to stow away during the day.  You get the feeling some stumble into the Victory Gardens not knowing what they are. I mean, it's not exactly Versailles.  It could be mistaken by some as a shantytown, I guess.

But like I said, most vagrants are just looking for a place to catch a few winks where they won't be jostled off a park bench or hassled by The Man.  It sounds harmless enough, but that's not what the community gardens are for.  That's what the Public Libraries are for.  And with libraries closing left and right, we're getting the overflow.

They shuffle the paths like shades straight out of Dante's Hell — hungry but hollow-eyed, aimless but angry.  I mean, take the squatter in my new neighbor Skip's garden — the same one, I am convinced, I did battle with all last summer.  Skip's gone through the same back-and-forth with him for weeks now.  But yesterday he called in the Cavalry.

Actually a carpenter.  He swapped motorcycle maintenance for some dude for an impenetrable garden gate.  And while it's a nightmare of two-by-fours and chicken wire it does look pretty solid...