It was an eyesore, said one lady who, in the two years since the space had been dug out and the cement poured, had become known as something of a crank.
The thing was, most of the people in town agreed with her, though few felt the need to grouch about it so plainly. There was a depression next to what appeared to be a base; a foundation--but for what? The philanthropist who had purchased the land was an eccentric whom nobody approached. The artist she had contracted, after insisting the work he had been hired for was complete, had left.
No one could imagine what kind of statue she had conceived of erecting there, so they instead began to think about what they'd like to see in its place. Fill the hole and pave it over, said the crank, but this time, not many agreed.
A fountain would be lovely, some said. A small garden for native plants, offered others. They talked about the matter while waiting in line at the grocery store and discussed it while strolling past the plot in the bloom of spring. They wrote in to the local paper and posted online. And the philanthropist, who would glance out from the windows of her broad estate whenever news of the dialogue reached her, only smiled and thought kindly of her gift.
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