'Tis the Season
Hunting season, that is. Black Powder Season begins tomorrow, so the “scouts” are out and the road is already littered with beer cans.
After I fed the dogs this evening, Mr. Redneck drove by at 5:45 and shot us the finger. Ah, we thought, he’s gone somewhere else, so it’ll be safe to go down the road to the farm, check on things, and get the mail from our mailbox down there.
We headed out at six. The trip along our road was uneventful. However, moments after we turned onto Blacksmith Road—before we crested the hill to start down to where our property begins, we were almost hit by a speeding 4-wheeler who swerved at the last minute but still kicked up a massive cloud of dust.
The driver—none other than Mr. Redneck’s older son, a sophomore at Ferrum College—yelled, “M----- F-----!” as he sped past. He yelled something else too, but I couldn’t make out exactly what he said. From his threatening tone, I knew he wasn't telling us to have a nice day. (He usually yells the "M-F" word whenever he sees John, but this time he yelled it at me, too.)
I fumbled in my purse for my tracphone. John stopped at the crest of the hill so I could call the sheriff’s department. Then I looked behind us. The kid had gotten off the four-wheeler (yeah, driving an ATV on a public road is illegal) and was headed toward us. He looked belligerent. “Go on!” I told John, and he did.
As we proceeded down the hill, we could see the tracks where the 4-wheeler had swerved back and forth across the road.
Trying to get a call to the sheriff’s department while down in the bottom was impossible, so we didn’t stop at our trailhead by the creek. We kept going until we reached our top field where I could finally get phone service. I punched in the number again and the deputy who answered said someone would be out soon.
From the intersection, the donuts he’d spun were evident. He’d spun one right in front of our big “Posted” sign, the same sign where–in years past—we'd sometimes find animal body parts.
Our Posted sign is just to the left.
We got our mail. While John checked out the property, I sat in the truck and read the paper. At 6:12, someone fired a shot from the top of the hill. Was the kid trying to intimidate us?
The deputy arrived about seven. We reported what happened and told how we’d had problems with this family before. The deputy told us that the magistrate wasn’t in Rocky Mount tonight, so we’d have to wait if we wanted to press charges for operating an ATV on state road, abusive language, and other charges.
This isn't my only episode of redneck harassment this week. A few days ago—on Sunday evening about six—I started down the driveway with Maggie in the back of the truck. We’d only gone about 20 feet when JP, the milk truck driver (who’d threatened to kill me in 1999 but hasn’t done it yet) came up the road, saw us, and pulled into the old depot across the driveway.
I figured I’d better not start out with him there. I decided to watch him for a while. He sat for a while, got out of the truck, walked around it, lifted the hood, walked around the truck some more, and must have realized I wasn’t leaving and that I had camera in hand. Finally he left.
Regular readers of this blog will note that the redneck decorating has gotten more elaborate: a chuch pew, as well as several metal chairs, now greets me whenever I leave my driveway.
Uh, if I go for a week or more without posting a blog entry, y’all come looking me. OK?
The number for the Sheriff's Department is 483-3000. Just in case you need to know.
After I fed the dogs this evening, Mr. Redneck drove by at 5:45 and shot us the finger. Ah, we thought, he’s gone somewhere else, so it’ll be safe to go down the road to the farm, check on things, and get the mail from our mailbox down there.
We headed out at six. The trip along our road was uneventful. However, moments after we turned onto Blacksmith Road—before we crested the hill to start down to where our property begins, we were almost hit by a speeding 4-wheeler who swerved at the last minute but still kicked up a massive cloud of dust.
The driver—none other than Mr. Redneck’s older son, a sophomore at Ferrum College—yelled, “M----- F-----!” as he sped past. He yelled something else too, but I couldn’t make out exactly what he said. From his threatening tone, I knew he wasn't telling us to have a nice day. (He usually yells the "M-F" word whenever he sees John, but this time he yelled it at me, too.)
I fumbled in my purse for my tracphone. John stopped at the crest of the hill so I could call the sheriff’s department. Then I looked behind us. The kid had gotten off the four-wheeler (yeah, driving an ATV on a public road is illegal) and was headed toward us. He looked belligerent. “Go on!” I told John, and he did.
As we proceeded down the hill, we could see the tracks where the 4-wheeler had swerved back and forth across the road.
Trying to get a call to the sheriff’s department while down in the bottom was impossible, so we didn’t stop at our trailhead by the creek. We kept going until we reached our top field where I could finally get phone service. I punched in the number again and the deputy who answered said someone would be out soon.
From the intersection, the donuts he’d spun were evident. He’d spun one right in front of our big “Posted” sign, the same sign where–in years past—we'd sometimes find animal body parts.
Our Posted sign is just to the left. We got our mail. While John checked out the property, I sat in the truck and read the paper. At 6:12, someone fired a shot from the top of the hill. Was the kid trying to intimidate us?
The deputy arrived about seven. We reported what happened and told how we’d had problems with this family before. The deputy told us that the magistrate wasn’t in Rocky Mount tonight, so we’d have to wait if we wanted to press charges for operating an ATV on state road, abusive language, and other charges.
This isn't my only episode of redneck harassment this week. A few days ago—on Sunday evening about six—I started down the driveway with Maggie in the back of the truck. We’d only gone about 20 feet when JP, the milk truck driver (who’d threatened to kill me in 1999 but hasn’t done it yet) came up the road, saw us, and pulled into the old depot across the driveway.
I figured I’d better not start out with him there. I decided to watch him for a while. He sat for a while, got out of the truck, walked around it, lifted the hood, walked around the truck some more, and must have realized I wasn’t leaving and that I had camera in hand. Finally he left.
Regular readers of this blog will note that the redneck decorating has gotten more elaborate: a chuch pew, as well as several metal chairs, now greets me whenever I leave my driveway.
Uh, if I go for a week or more without posting a blog entry, y’all come looking me. OK?
The number for the Sheriff's Department is 483-3000. Just in case you need to know.
Labels: harassment, rural life
posted by Becky Mushko | 9:35 PM
3 Comments:
We all wish we had little old Auntie Ellie as a neighbor, bringing over her homemade apple pie just out of the oven.
Instead, you get Larry, Darrell and Darrell, with a shot of Deliverance in the mix.
And now they have well-trained offspring to carry on their tradition.
Be careful, be very, very careful.
I worry about you. There is just something really wrong over there.
Wear orange.
I worry too. You don't know how far a crazy person will go.
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