Is This How It Might Have Happened?

My mind has been running wild lately (usually it walks, often with a limp) and here is my latest theory: my stolen tombstone was a lake job. Yep, some of those newcomers from the north who recently moved to the lake and just don’t understand how things work around here are responsible. Gotta be. My theory:

An older New York couple—we’ll call them Fred and Ethel—leave their NYC apartment because they’re tired of their neighbors’ shenanigans—Lucy is always coming up with hare-brained schemes and Ricky is always beating on a Conga drum and yelling “Ba-ba-looooo!” Gets on their nerves. Plus all those steps to climb because the elevator never works. Most of their other NY friends and a good percentage of their NJ friends are already at Smith Mountain Lake and tell them how great it is. So Fred and Ethel move into a place on a quiet cove. (Are there any quiet coves left at SML? I’ll work on that later. Back to the plot.)

Anyhow, Ethel starts serving on a bunch of committees and joins a bunch of clubs, and Fred takes up golf—but he’s lousy at it and the other retirees make fun of him. Ethel also notices that their place could use a little fixing up.

One day, when they’re driving through the countryside (what there is left of it in the county), they notice all these little places with upright stones in them.

“Could those be cemeteries?” asks Ethel.

“Nah,” replies Fred. “I’m pretty sure you can’t have a cemetery in your yard.” He looks over the tall grass in the hayfield surrounding the bucolic little cemetery. “And don’t those people ever mow their yard? As big as this place is, you’d think they could afford a gardener or something.”

“You’re probably right, Fred,” says Ethel. “Cemeteries should have hundreds of people in them, not just a few. Maybe somebody tried to build a miniature Stonehenge here and then just gave up.”

“Ethel, are you nuts?” says Fred. “Who’d do such a stupid thing?”

“Well, I’ve heard in Roanoke there’s a miniature Graceland,” Ethel says. Then she gets an idea, which is not a good sign what with all of Lucy’s former influence. “One of those stones would make a perfect step next to the deck. You know, where you’re always falling off? It’s not like anyone is actually using them. Whattya say, Fred?”

“I dunno, Ethel,” says Fred as they climb out of their humongous SUV to take a closer look. “They got people’s names on them. Probably whoever put them here. And dates.”

“Hmmm,” says Ethel, as she squints because she refuses to wear glasses. “The last date must be the ‘use by’ date. Some of these rocks are pretty out-dated.”

“Lookee!” says Fred. “There’s one in the back row without an expiration date. Let’s get it. I don’t see the owner of this place around. It isn’t like anyone will miss it.”

With a lot of pushing and heaving (New Yorkers are noted for their toughness), Fred and Ethel wrestle the stone into the SUV and drive it home where it makes a lovely addition to the backyard. And Fred doesn’t fall off the deck nearly as much.

After trying it both ways, they decide to put it face down so the writing doesn’t show. Ethel’s “Art Appreciation and Wine-Tasting for the Not-Quite-Elderly” group just studied minimalism and merlot, so she thinks the blank side makes more of a statement. Especially when you’ve killed off a bottle of whatever vintage was on special at Kroger’s last senior citizen’s discount day.

All Ethel’s new friends (at least the ones in the most recent arrival division of the latest newcomers club) think her new decorative step looks great.

“It looks great!” they say, as they sip another glass of wine and nod agreement with each other.

Fred uses the stone to practice putting and shaves several strokes off his score, thus gaining respect from the other guys at the country club.

As they sit on the stone in the warm November night and watch the sun set over the property across the cove (the development of which will soon obscure the sight of the sunset and just about everything else) and enjoy the quiet (now that most of the week-enders and tourists are gone for the season), they rest in peace.

And maybe kill off a couple of bottles of merlot.

~The End~

Note: Astute readers (and members of my writing groups) will be quick to spot the major error in this story: “the tall grass in the hayfield.” In this drought? Is that a piece of fiction, or what?

The above story was, of course, fiction that I wrote last night. For those needing a non-fiction fix, here's the scene that greeted me a bit after seven this morning: a pile of gravel surrounded by a church pew and metal chairs.



Wonder what story goes with that?

A Little Help From My Friends

“All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.”

—Edmund Burke

You don’t know who your friends really are until your tombstone vanishes. Turns out I’ve got lots of friends who’ve emailed, phoned, stopped by, stopped me on the street, etc., to offer their condolences and support. I’ve had advice from a couple of detective buddies, offers of prayers, offers of a hex (nothing really harmful, “just psychological stuff,” the emailer noted), an offer of possible FBI involvement (“My son does work for the FBI, wanna call in a favor?” another friend emailed), and a bunch of other interesting offers. An all this was before yesterday’s KNRA/WXLP radio show.

Turns out many of the locals don’t care for the things my harassers do, either. “A lot of people are embarrassed by them,” a guy told me Wednesday, “but they’re afraid to speak out because of retaliation.” He noted that some people visiting him from out of town wondered about the rusty chair display across from my driveway, and he had to explain that it was an example of harassment by some of the locals. (Too bad he didn’t know that it’s “a place for the hunters to sit.” Heck, even I didn’t know that myself until yesterday’s show.)

Retaliation: That’s the key. When good people do nothing, evil triumphs. My area does have a lot of good people in it. Many of my neighbors are wonderful, caring people. I’m proud to know them and to live near them. But many are afraid to take a stand.

Mean people exist. We all know that. Bullying is a problem in public schools. Child abuse and domestic abuse are problems in our society. TV shows, like Dr. Phil and his ilk, often address these problems. Neighbor abuse exists, too. A friend of mine, from an area several miles from me, was even physically attacked by one her neighbors as she was nailing up a “No Trespassing” sign. She didn’t know then about warrants. So, all the mean people don’t live around me. But I’ve got more than my share.

In my younger days, I was a member of a trail club who met in a building (I think it was a Ruritan clubhouse), on the wall of which hung this sign:

If it’s to be,
It’s up to me.

Once a month—for a couple of years during the 1980s—I looked at that sign. Was it a message for me?

Is it up to me to stop expecting that the neighborhood rednecks/”local hunters” get tired of harassing me? Is it up to me to expose the hatefulness of a small group of people? Can I make the world—a tiny piece of it, at least—better because I call attention to those who attempt to bully me?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But I went into town yesterday and “did something”—among other things, I took out a “stay away” warrant on the guy who confronted me on yesterday’s radio program. I’m sure he will consider that another instance of my harassment of the locals. After all, the “local hunters” were only offering to get back my tombstone that they accuse me of stealing myself, and all I have to do is not “harass” them. Uh, does this sound like blackmail?

If it quacks like a duck. . .

And if it’s to be—well, you know.

~

What the World Knows Now

Well, the radio interview for the station in Iowa was certainly interesting this morning. One of the “local hunters” was on the other line.

The host asked if I knew a Reverend Randy Watson, I didn’t. Then did I know a K---n D----? Turns out I did. (He's a local landscaper who does a lot of stonework at the lake.) That’s who was on the other line.

It seems, according to KD, that the talk around the area—where “the Mushkos have so many enemies”—is that my tombstone theft was an “inside job.” Apparently, according to him, my husband and I stole it! “A witness saw her husband’s truck by the cemetery Sunday night.” Huh? Why has this “witness” not come forward?

If we’d been there Sunday night, we’d have reported the theft then. Now, what are “witnesses” doing hanging around our farm at night? And why? John already asked the closest neighbor if they’d seen anything? Why did she say she hadn’t? (OK, faithful blog readers, can you picture two 60-plus people—one of whom is overweight and has health problems and the other of whom isn’t in great shape either—wrestling a 500-lb. stone out of a cemetery in the middle of the night?)

Gee, did we also spike our own farm driveway and get flat tires on our trucks back in 2003, do you think?

Interesting how KD turned the tables on me. Apparently, I’m the one harassing the local hunters. Is reporting game violations harassment? Is reporting property damage harassment? Is wanting to be safe on my own property or on the public roads harassment?

“None of the game wardens will respond to her calls,” KD said, mentioning that the police don’t respond either. Uh, yes, they do. Every time I’ve called.

KD accuses me of “crying wolf.” I don’t. (And how would he know whether or not they respond to my calls? Is he monitoring my calls? If so, how?)

KD says the theft of my tombstone was a “way to get publicity” for myself. Why do I need to “get publicity” for myself? I write a column. (AHA! Now I know who must have written that letter of complaint about my column a few weeks ago!)

When I asked KD if he was the one sitting beside his brother at my husband’s trial last year (when one of the locals swore out two false warrants against my husband), and my husband—who didn’t even need a lawyer—defended himself and was found not guilty, KD answered “It could have been me.” Could have been? You either know or don’t know if you’re sitting beside your own brother at a trial. (A brother, by the way, who sends us an email a few days later in which he calls my husband “Mushcrapko.”)

Turns out, according to KD, I have “numerous enemies” in the community. That I have been “harassing the hunters” for years.

I had no idea that posting my land or trying to drive along public roads to my land was “harassing.” Gee, who would’ve thought!

Now it seems, the "local hunters," who have endured my “harassment” for so many years, are offering to buy me a new tombstone if I’ll stop harassing them.

OK, let me get this straight: If I no longer report hunting violations to the authorities, if I stop calling the police every time someone drives by and threatens me—whether it is nearly colliding a 4-wheeler into my truck on a public road or stopping in front of my farm to take my picture or firing shots (albeit into the ground) across the road from me while I’m getting my mail out of the mailbox or scattering spikes in my farm driveway—they’ll replace my tombstone. First I’ve heard of it. You’d have thought they would have told me personally instead of announcing it on an Internet radio show based in Iowa.

Does this mean they'll also stop yelling “Fat Ass!” at me or the “M-F” word at my husband while they drive by or will one of them stop giving my husband or me the middle finger? If they don’t stop and we maybe become indignant and maybe even contact authorities (who, of course aren't going to respond because we're “crying wolf”), does that mean we’re “harassing” them? And if they actually replace the tombstone, and it turns out that we don't behave in such a manner that suits them, will they haul it away again?

KD also took offense that I called the locals by the term “rednecks.”

“Some of them are self-made millionaires—not rednecks!” he declared. The host pointed out that the two were not mutually exclusive. The host also mentioned that he felt like Maury during this exchange.

KD mentioned some other things that didn’t happen—like we’d harassed them during dove season this year. Well, some hunters were out there across the road from us for a while. But there weren’t many doves and it was hot, so most of them went home early. I stayed in and did housework, only looking out occasionally. Plus, I was still recovering from my hospital stay. (I wonder, are people who look like my husband and me, harassing them? Could that be it?)

KD referred to the old Novelty depot as a “hunting cabin.” When I asked him about the rusty chairs across from my driveway, he said they’re “for the hunters to sit on.” (Why would hunters want to sit on chairs a few feet from a public road and facing a private residence—my home? What, exactly, are they hunting from there?

Picture taken this morning. The flowers are in my flowerbed. The edge of my driveway is at lower right. If you click to enlarge the picture, you can see the old chairs facing the road. The old pew in the center was near the road until last Saturday. What could they be hunting from the intersection where three roads meet? Plus they all live in the neighborhood. They never stay over in the old depot.

Even the host noticed something, after KD had mentioned the details of the 4-wheeler incident (if KD were there, I sure didn't see him) and said we “backed up” (we didn’t) and the kid “didn’t get off” his 4-wheeler and come toward us (he did) and that the kid weighed 250 pounds. The host mentioned that a kid this size might have a few friends and—well, you know.

(Thank you, KD, for publicly announcing that the kid was indeed on the road. I’m sure his lawyer will be delighted that you verified that he was riding on the public road in such a manner because now the lawyer won't have to waste valuable time determining if his client was or was not on a public road.)

So, anyway, it turns out that I must not really be the victim of harassment after all. Gee, it’s news to me.

And speaking of news: Thank you, KD, for sharing such interesting information with such a large audience—an audience, I’m sure, that reaches many more people than this humble blog does.

Meanwhile, I'm still awaiting a tombstone. Either the original or a replacement.

Update: The day after the interview, KD decided to create a blog to denounce me. His brother created another one. And the producer of the show sent me a CD of the interviw.

Tombstone Updates

WEDNESDAY, NOV. 14 UP-DATE: The story of my pilfered tombstone spreads across the USA (Well, halfway)! The Dwyer & Michaels radio show in Iowa (Stations KNRA & WXLP; online at www.2dorks.com) wants to interview me. Listen online at 8 a.m. (or thereabouts) Thursday!

~~~

It's still missing. (Thanks to the many faithful blog readers who have called or emailed.) I didn't think my tombstone would return of its own accord.

Mike Allen's story about it made the front page of the Virginia section of today's Roanoke Times. [UPDATE: The Associated Press picked up the story. A story also ran in the  Franklin-News Post.]

I'll update this post periodically today if I hear anything. Right now, we assume it's just one in a long series of harassment by some of the local rednecks. (A summary of their harassment is here.) Or, possibly, the theft is related to the warrants I filed last week.

Time will tell. Or possibly the reward I'm offering will motivate one of the thief's buddies to tell: $500 for information leading to arrest and conviction of person responsible.

Stay tuned.

Edited to add: Was interviewed by phone by Q-99.]

~

'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.

Rats & Drugs

A couple of resident rats are probably mad at me. Whenever I notice a fresh rat-hole in the horse shed, I stuff manure down it. This morning I found a major new excavation. The hole was huge. Red clay was tossed all over the sawdust. Looks like the rats are going to put up a fight.

Rats made the news yesterday. Not my rats—these were city rats. The news-making rats have infested Fairview Elementary School in Roanoke so badly that students will be bussed to another elementary school for a month until the rats are eradicated.

Before my 1997 retirement, I taught at a Roanoke middle school [Update: closed in 2010] that also had a rat problem—both animal and human. Nobody paid much attention to the rats, which we occasionally saw running around the school’s courtyard. Eventually, the courtyard was closed to students. I guess they didn’t want the kids frightening the rats. Some students were more dangerous than the rats. I remember one seventh-grader boasting to the class that he’d be a drug kingpin by summer. The other kids didn’t dispute him.

I’m not the only teacher at that school who took early retirement. Most of us were glad to get out of that toxic environment as soon as we could. Last year, I ran into a former colleague, also retired. We chatted about our teaching experiences and about how so many—a dozen or more—teachers there had developed cancer or autoimmune disorders while working there. (She and I both had autoimmune disorders.)

The health problems of so many teachers at that school were probably just a coincidence, though.

Speaking of drugs, Franklin County’s latest annual drug raid resulted in the confiscation of over 200 marijuana plants. Yesterday’s Franklin News-Post had a picture of marijuana being confiscated from somewhere on the other side of the county. Every summer, agents fly over in a helicopter and search for plants.

Monday the drug helicopter was flying over our area. From my deck, I could see it making big circles over where my Polecat Creek farm is. Why does it fly over my farm? In the early-90s (before we permanently moved to the area), John and I often camped at the farm on spring and summer weekends. One day, we noticed a path going from the road into our woods on the Dinner Creek side of our property. Knowing the path was wider than the average deer path, we followed it to a clearing where about two dozen holes had been dug. The holes were nearly a foot deep and about six inches across. We called a neighbor who is an investigator for the Sheriff’s Department. He confirmed the holes were where someone was going to plant marijuana. He said he’d keep an eye out. That made us feel better.

Later that summer, the biggest marijuana raid in Franklin County history happened 50 feet from our property line. The agents drove through our farm and cut our fence to get to the site. They hauled out over a thousand plants. Knowing that we had been so close to illegal activity all summer was a little scary. The authorities never did make any arrests.

That fall, someone left a deer head in our farm mailbox. The woman delivering the mail found it and called police. Obviously someone whose million-dollar crop was destroyed thought we were responsible for the raid. We weren’t.

Every since that fall, we’ve been harassed by some of the local rednecks. Harassment is much worse during hunting season, when it’s not unusual for us to find dismembered deer parts on or near our farm.

I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that the biggest marijuana raid in county history happened on the farm owned by the daddy of my biggest harasser.

Anyhow, the resident rats—both four-legged and two-legged—don’t like me.

They're Baaaaack!

The downside of rural living:

Harassment by Rednecks season has officially started. This evening, a couple of them appeared over at the old depot (their "hunt club") across the road from my driveway to start their pre-dove season decorating. Mr. Redneck's big brother (hereafter called BB for short) sat up the chairs directly across from my driveway and added a piece of corrugated pipe. (According to my husband who watched, only two vehicles almost hit BB as he stood in the road and arranged chairs and the pipe to his satisfaction.) Mr. Redneck himself trimmed back some trees and left some of the trimmings in the road on the other side of the old depot.

Click to enlarge.

After they were gone, I decided to drive down the road to the farm and get the mail. At the end of the driveway, I stopped to take a picture. It's a bit blurry—I'm taking it through my truck's dirty windshield. The pipe to the right of the four chairs looks like a tree trunk. I took the picture a little after eight.

Not long after I'd snapped a picture, JP's truck appeared with Mr. RN and kid in the back (yeah, it's against the law in Virginia to drive around with a minor in the back of an open pick-up, but nobody ever accused this group of being law-abiding) and someone in the passenger seat. A full load.

When they saw me sitting in my truck, JP drove very slowly in front of my driveway. He blocked me in momentarily; I couldn't escape unless I backed up. I don't back down; I didn't back up.

"Hey, Baby, let us take a picture of you!" one of them (JP, I think) hollered. As they pulled away, another remarked upon the size of my derriere (which, I grant you, is indeed ample).

The picture I snapped of them is blurry, so I didn't post it. However, it identifies JP's truck pretty well.

I figured I'd better call the cops, so I did and asked if someone could come by on patrol. Then I went down to the farm to get the mail from the farm box and to check on things. I thought I'd get home before dark. Turns out, I didn't.

I got the newspaper, drove the driveway circle, and drove around our hay field across the road. I wanted to go along the property line down to the creek, but I didn't want to get trapped down there. I came back to the cottage and drove the circle again.

Before I'd finished the circle, JP's truck came from the road where I would have been if I'd gone to the bottom of the property line. I stayed put in the driveway—about 50 feet back from the road. The truck stopped. I snapped some pictures. Mr. Redneck got out of the back of the pick-up and stood in the road. I think he took a picture with his phone, but it was getting dark and I was busy taking pictures myself and wondering if I were going to be gunned down or something. Then he got back in the truck.


This is one of the clearer pictures. With the night vision setting, it takes a while to snap a picture. Since the truck was at a standstill here, this shot isn't too bad.

After they pulled away, I called the cops again. Luckily, one was close by and gave me an escort home in the dark. He took the report and promised extra patrols in the area.

Now, this encounter is one in a series of strange happenings. On Friday evening, John and I were turning into the Penhook dumpster area when Mr. RN happened to be coming out. He mouthed a four-syllable word at us as he passed by. Since the letters m and f are easy to lip read, we pretty much knew what he said.

A little after 7 on Saturday evening, we heard a faint knock on the back door—so faint, if it hadn't been for the stampeding alarm cats, we wouldn't have been sure it was a real knock. John went to answer. When I got there, I saw a long white limo in the driveway and a kid (brown crew cut, average height) in a tux. John was describing how to get to Mr. RN's house, where the limo was allegedly going.

The kid looked a little surprised to see me and then asked where a gas station was—he said he had to get gas before he made his pick-up. Then he left. Gee, you'd think that a limo driver would know to tank up before venturing into rural America, wouldn't you?

The odd thing is that the limo, which had dark windows so we couldn't see inside, was backed up close to our garage opening. Now, when most folks visit, they pull straight in and we show them where to back up as they leave. Did the limo driver want to make a fast getaway since he'd already turned around before he knocked?

Another odd thing: to get to our road, no matter which direction he'd come from, he had to pass a gas station two miles back. Why would he ask where one was?

After the limo pulled out and headed for Union Hall, we went to feed and water the critters. We figured we'd see the limo drive by when it returned. We must have been at the barn for a good 45 minutes. Then we did some yard chores. We never saw the limo again.

Anyhow, strange things are happening. If I go a week without posting on this blog, y'all come looking for me. OK?

Otherwise, Happy Harassment by Rednecks Season! Too bad Hallmark doesn't make a card. . . .

Splendor in the Grass? Not Exactly . . .

Brrrr! This morning was so cold, I had to break through a half-inch of ice in the dog buckets and a quarter inch in the horse tubs.

Despite last night's temperatures in the 20s, the grass is still green—and the greenest, lushest, most luxuriant grass on our whole place is in the kennel. What's the secret? Organic fertilizer! My husband calls it "Poupon DeLawn," a term he heard on Car Talk.


Yep, the places the dogs "go" is not only green but also thick and lush. I wonder why folks who walk dogs in public parks are expected to pick up after their pooches, and why the park maintenance people put down chemical fertilizer to make the grass green? Wouldn't it be easier and cheaper and less toxic to just let the dogs do the job?

Now, if you'd like thick, lush green grass in your yard, I'd be more than happy to rent you a border collie, a mixed retriever, a catahoula, a mixed sheltie, and a beagle—or any combination thereof. Prices are negotiable. (Travel expenses extra. Not responsible for teeth marks on shrubbery or lawn furniture.)

Never underestimate the power of poochie poop—er, Poupon DeLawn.

Redneck Update: This evening, while I was refilling the birdfeeder, Mr. Redneck walked by carrying a camcorder. I don't think he took videos of me, and at least he stayed on the opposite side of the road. I am resisting the urge to use the term "Poupon DeRoad."

More Harassment

Ah, rural living! You never know what will happen next.

I was in the pasture scraping the shedding blade across Melody when Mr. Redneck drove past. I didn’t have my watch on, but I know it was between 6 and 7 p.m. because I’d watched some of the news before I went out to feed the critters. I’d tossed the ball for Maggie longer than I wanted to, and then I scraped shedding hair off Cupcake and Melody.

I was headed back to the house when John came out to his shop (which adjoins the horse shed and kennel). At that time, Mr. RN drove back. Where had he gone for less than five minutes? Gee, you don’t think he might have been checking on us, do you?

After I had rounded up the cats, got them in, and checked my email, John came in to tell me about the “confrontation.” John was returning from checking our neighbor’s property and dog (as our neighbor had asked him to do) and was walking in our yard midway between the upper and lower driveway, and headed back to his shop. Mr. RN came walking up the road, whipped out an object, pushed it toward John's face, and yelled “Gotcha!” John, surprised, instinctively put his hand up. He didn't know if Mr. RN was about to hit him in the face or what. When John realized that the object pushed toward his face was a cameraphone and Mr. Redneck was taking his picture, John continued walking toward his shop, and Mr. RN continued walking to the old depot at the corner (which his brother owns and where the folding chairs are). He walked around the depot (which faces our upper driveway) for a bit.

(This is not the first time, Mr. RN has snapped pictures. Only a few days earlier—about 9 last Saturday morning—Mr. RN was walking along the road while John was mowing along the roadway. Mr. RN pulled out his phone and snapped John’s picture then. Our neighbor and his hired man happened to notice as they drove down the road and asked John what Mr. RN was doing. Mr. RN was snapping pictures of both John and me the morning after John was found not guilty of mr. RN's false warrants last fall.)

Mr. RN must have called his son from the depot, because within minutes son drove up in his little lavender truck. Mr. RN got in with his son who turned his little truck around, drove a couple hundred feet to the edge of our pines where John sat in the glider, and stopped. Mr. RN and son stared at John for a while. Then the son challenged John to come out to the road: “You wanna swat, come on out here!” As the son continued mouthing off, Mr. RN said he was going to call the sheriff: “The sheriff’s gonna come to your house and charge you with assault!”

John, being considerably more intelligent than either Mr. RN or son, didn’t answer the challenge and kept sitting in his glider under the pines. Mr. RN and son sat parked in the driveway across the road and waited for about five minutes before going home. I guess they got bored that John wasn’t going to respond to their intimidation.

After they left, John came in the house, announced, “I just had a confrontation,” and filled me in on the details. Then he called the sheriff and explained what had just happened.

We went back outside to finish up some of the barn work—mainly, refilling the water tubs—and waited for the deputy to arrive. It was after dark when we saw the car go past. First he went down the road to Mr. RN’s house (Mr. RN had obviously called, too) and about twenty minutes later, came to see us.

John told Officer Mayo what happened—essentially when someone sticks a cameraphone in your face and yells, “Gotcha!” you’re going to throw your hand up to protect yourself.

So, it looks like Mr. RN & son, frightened of the assault that didn’t happen as they harassed and challenged my husband, will probably file a warrant. In fact, as I typed this, a very noisy little truck went past. Since the little lavender Toyota has an unusually noisy muffler, I assume father and son were en route to the magistrate’s office. (How nice that father and son do things together!)

Stay tuned, gentle blog readers, for the next installment.

Show vs. Substance

Click picture to see larger view.

One of the signs of spring around here is the blooming peach tree. The tree was supposed to be an ornamental peach—all show and no substance.

However, the peach tree apparently doesn’t know it was supposed to be merely ornamental. Not only does it give a fine display of blossoms every March, but it also produces edible peaches in mid-summer. Last year the Japanese beetles ate the peaches; the year before we ate them.

The tree, standing guard between driveway and mailbox, offers a sign of hospitality to all who enter. It’s both show and substance.

If you look through the branches, you can see the latest arrangement of the “redneck chairs” across the road from my driveway. Besides sporting blaze orange streamers, one chair now contains an empty jar. A beer bottle lies beside the chair on the right. Mr. Redneck walks past most evenings and rearranges the chairs slightly. Is the chair arrangement a sign of inhospitality to all who pass by? Or is it perhaps a subtle advertisement for the design abilities of H-Bros. Construction?

Whatever its purpose, the chair arrangement isn't much for show, but it does show a distinct lack of substance.

Stupid Redneck Tricks

I should have known the local rednecks were planning something. Things had been a bit too quiet now that deer season is over. Also, whenever my picture appears in the local paper—and it did about a week ago in a story about my serving as vice-president for the Virginia Writers Club—someone cuts up our lawn.

Mr. Redneck (he of the false warrants against my husband) from down the road has been walking past about the time I feed and water my critters in the late afternoon. He has plenty of acreage of his own to walk on—and the road does run another mile in the opposite direction, but for some reason he has to walk by us. On Thursday, his older brother accompanied him part-way home in his pick-up truck. Once Mr. Redneck was safely past our property (Was he frightened that I might brandish the hose at him as I watered the horses?), Big Brother turned his truck around and headed home. Yesterday morning, Mr. Redneck walked past again—carrying a very fancy walking stick (much classier than the wooden one he used to carry last summer). Yesterday afternoon, I noticed J*r*my the milk-truck driver who had “questioned” a neighbor of mine who was on my property to see my horses on January 6 and who has harassed me numerous times, drive past a couple of times. (Note: Winter is finally here in Virginia. I spent much of the day inside, but we have a large window on the world—and the road.)

Sunday evening, after I’d fed the critters, Maggie and I went down the road to the farm. She ran, herded turkeys, and dived into the creek. I walked and shivered. I pulled my truck into our upper driveway about 5:30. All quiet.

At 7:40, I took Maggie out. She always pees close to the flowerbed but then likes to walk to the mailbox and back. Even though it was cold, I decided to let her walk.

As we neared the mailbox, at first I thought I saw animal’s body in the driveway. A possum maybe? Too dark to tell.

When we got closer, I saw it was a big hunk of sod. Under the dusk to dawn light at the where my driveway meets the road, I could see the cut-up places in our lawn and the slung gravel in the driveway. Someone in a truck (wide tire tracks) had made a big circle around our mailbox.

I went in and called the sheriff’s department. I hate to bother them for trivial stuff, but I think I need to leave official documentation of harassment.

Anyhow, here are the latest pictures:

The big blob to the upper right is what I thought was a dead animal.

Just across the road are the folding chairs that they placed there months ago.
Click to enlarge the picture, and you'll see them to the right of the stop sign.

We’re pretty sure this was J*r*my’s work. A couple of years ago, my husband saw him drive around the mailbox but was too far away to catch him.

Anyhow, if your village is short an idiot, we have a surplus here. Want one?

Old Christmas & Stories

January 6 is Old Christmas—Twelfth Night—Epiphany. According to some mountain folk, this is the real Christmas, the day the Magi arrived.

Strange things are said to happen on Old Christmas. Ghosts walk the earth again, animals talk, flowers bloom out of season.

Today—like the preceding week—has been unusually warm. My japonica bush down at the farm is in bloom. I did yardwork in shirtsleeves. I had an unusual day, though. More about that later.

One of my favorite poems is about Old Christmas. This poem tells a story about a mountain woman watching for her husband to return from hunting when she is visited by an estranged friend. The poem is a conversation between these two women:

Old Christmas Morning
by Roy Helton (1886-1960)

"Where you coming from, Lomey Carter,
So airly over the snow?
And what's them pretties you got in your hand,
And where you aiming to go?

"Step in, Honey: Old Christmas morning
I ain't got nothing much;
Maybe a bite of sweetness and corn bread,
A little ham meat and such,

"But come in, Honey! Sally Anne Barton's
Hungering after your face.
Wait till I light my candle up:
Set down! There's your old place.

"Now where you been so airly this morning?”
"Graveyard, Sally Anne.
Up by the trace in the salt lick meadows
Where Taulbe kilt my man."

"Taulbe ain't to home this morning . . .
I can't scratch up a light:
Dampness gets on the heads of the matches;
But I'll blow up the embers bright."

"Needn't trouble. I won't be stopping:
Going a long ways still."
"You didn't see nothing, Lomey Carter,
Up on the graveyard hill?"

"What should I see there, Sally Anne Barton?"
“Well, sperits do walk last night."
"There were an elder bush a-blooming
While the moon still give some light."

"Yes, elder bushes, they bloom, Old Christmas,
And critters kneel down in their straw.
Anything else up in the graveyard?"
"One thing more I saw:

I saw my man with his bead all bleeding
Where Taulbe's shot went through."
" What did he say?” "He stooped and kissed me."
“What did he say to you?”

"Said, Lord Jesus forguv your Taulbe;
But he told me another word;
He said it soft when he stooped and kissed me.
That were the last I heard."

"Taulbe ain't to home this morning."
"I know that, Sally Anne,
For I kilt him, coming down through the meadow
Where Taulbe kilt my man.

"I met him upon the meadow trace
When the moon were fainting fast,
And I had my dead man's rifle gun
And kilt him as he come past."

But I heard two shots." "'Twas his was second:
He shot me 'fore be died:
You'll find us at daybreak, Sally Anne Barton:
I'm laying there dead at his side."

I didn’t see any ghosts out and about today—at least not yet. Because today is the last day of black powder season, I did see my fair share of rednecks. One of them—JP the milk truck driver—started haunting me early. Maggie and I had no sooner gotten the paper at 6:08 this morning and were halfway back to the house at when he drove by and blasted his horn. Even though, it was dark, I could plainly make out his pickup truck under the dusk to dawn light at the end of my driveway.

Later, after I’d put Maggie in the kennel and fed dogs and horses, I was scattering birdseed on the deck railing about 8: 55 when he drove by again and blasted his horn. Enough, I decided, and called the police. I asked them to patrol the area. A few minutes later, after I’d started yard-work, I saw the cop car go by. A half hour later, one of the unmarked cars went past. Later, I saw a game warden. I felt a lot safer.

A few hours later, as I spread mulch near the mailbox, a newcomer from down the road came along pushing her two kids in a stroller. We stopped and chatted. I asked the little girl if she liked horses. She nodded; I invited them to visit Melody and Cupcake. The woman said she’d go on down the road to the front fence. I walked part way with her and—when I didn’t see the horses in the front field—went to the back field to call them. I vanished into the pines, as it were.

While I was hidden from view by the pines, JP drove down the road, stopped beside the woman and kids and demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?” “Looking for the horses,” she said. “Where’s your old man?” he asked. “Do you mean my husband?” she said. Then he saw me emerge from the pines, and he drove to his buddy’s driveway a couple of hundred feet down the road.

The woman didn’t know what to think. I explained who the guy was and some of the things he’d done in the past. Then we visited with Cupcake and Melody. Turns out the woman’s older daughter loves horses and used to show. Just the kind of folks some of us want in the neighborhood.

Now, I’m perplexed. Did JP think that the woman was me? (I’m at least 25 years older, much fatter, have light hair, and don’t have two small children in stroller. He’s seen me close up several times—like the time last March 4 when he approached me and fired his shotgun three times into the ground while I got my mail from the box.) Or—was he trying to pick up a woman alone on a stretch of country road? Did he just want to intimidate her because he and his kind don’t like all the newcomers who “ain’t from around here” in the neighborhood? Or is he just . . . ? Well, I wonder what the story really is.

The afternoon was even more interesting. On my way home from Union Hall, two stained glass doors in Donna’s antique shop caught my eye. I stopped in to see if there was a story behind them. Turns out, Donna didn’t know of any. They were way out of my price range and I have nowhere to put them, so—tempted though I might be—I didn’t buy them. As we chatted, a guy came into the store. Turns out he’d been wanting to meet me. Ralph and I are kin—third or fourth cousins. We talked genealogy (I found out the old Smith Cemetery is the one at Water’s Edge, and there used to be a Smith’s Chapel there, too.)

Then Pete from next door came in. I mentioned something about today being Old Christmas, and I ended up reciting the above poem. Talk turned to ghosts, and everyone had stories to share. Donna once lived in a haunted house; Ralph and I had both smelled strong perfume from a ghost, plus Ralph had once seen what must have been a ghost. Pete told a story about a relative who’d been frightened in a cemetery.

So, I went to find out the story behind the stained glass, and heard other stories instead.

A most interesting day. Y’all have a Merry Old Christmas!

Ill Winds

This morning's high winds blew the birch tree over. Since it's broken at the root, there'll be no saving it. Luckily it missed the tractor parked nearby.

I'll miss the birch. The other one died a couple of years ago, but part of its trunk still stands. I liked seeing the birches at night, their white bark contrasting sharply with the pines—kind of like ghost trees.

The wind didn't faze the pumpkin, though. It still stands—er, sits—on its rock. Last night, under cover of darkness, two trucks pulled in across the road.

This time, the rednecks didn't hang a deer. Instead, they positioned three metal folding chairs facing the pumpkin and my driveway.

Is this an attempt at harassment by metal furniture, or are they really interested in contemplating that pumpkin closer?


Or are they just going to play a redneck version of musical chairs?

Terrorists Among Us

The downside of rural living. The following events are from our early years in Penhook.

“Has the war started yet?” my elderly mother used to say in 2001 when I’d wake her up at 6:30 AM to take her first round of medication.

One morning she said, “Every time I hear a loud noise, I think it’s the war starting.”

A few days later, she said, “I didn’t sleep last night for worrying that terrorists would come in and use those fireplace tools to kill me.”

Since the war was technically over, she didn’t ask me how it was going, but she worried constantly. She was terrified of terrorists. Ever since she came to live with me—the day after 9-11, she stayed convinced that terrorists would parachute into the cow pasture across the road. She told me so numerous times in the three years she lived with me.

“Terrorists are not here,” I repeatedly assured her. “There’s nothing that terrorists want in Penhook.”

I lied. The terrorists were already here. For the last three years of my mother’s life, I managed to hide their existence from her.

The terrorists made their existence known in November 1999. Just before deer season, one of them cruised the dirt road in front of our farm, a mile southeast of our house, while my husband was there. He inquired about hunting—even mentioned that he’d once killed a deer right under our dusk-to-dawn light. My husband informed him that our land was posted: “My wife walks here everyday and she doesn’t want any shooting.”

The terrorist replied, “Well, maybe I should get rid of her and make it look like you did it.”

My first death threat.

A few weeks later, that terrorist and his buddies—some of whom were his kinfolk—cruised back and forth along the road. They were road-hunters: redneck slob hunters too lazy to track game. Instead, they waited for it to cross the road. Sometimes, a few cruised with their CBs on while one parked along the roadside. If game wardens were in the vicinity, the shooter had plenty of advance warning. If they saw me walking on my property, they glared at me. How dare I witness their illegal activities. The nerve of me!

After dark, a convey might slowly wend its way around the 3.3 mile loop that connects my house and farm. The lead truck carried the light and another carried the gun. They couldn’t be spotlighting if the light and gun weren’t in the same truck.

Since I kept my horses at the farm in 1999, I made many trips down the road to see if they were safe. Once in a while, a road-hunter would try to run me off the road. The horses, pastured out of sight of the road, remained safe. After all, they didn’t have antlers. They wouldn’t make good trophies.

Through the years, things got worse. In 2000, every time I went down the road to the farm, I’d end up behind a slow-moving road-hunter. He would swerve back and forth across the road so I couldn’t pass. Soon, thanks to CB technology, another would pull up behind me. But they never touched me, and they never turned into my driveway when I did. They kept circling, some in one direction, some in another. No matter which way I turned, one was always in front of me.

By then my horses were pastured in my backyard.

Once, after one of them (a school bus driver!) who’d slowly cruised by the farm and glared at me, drove by for the fifth time in a half-hour, I pulled my truck out of my farm driveway and blocked his path.

“What do you want?” I asked him. “Why are you stalking me?”

He feigned innocence. Why, they weren’t boxing me in—he would have let me pass if I’d only have put on my blinker. This is a public road, he pointed out. They had a perfect right to be there. Later, I learned that—earlier in the day— a dead de-horned buck had been dumped in my hay field. I guess the road-hunters were checking to see my reaction when I found it. My husband found it first and removed it to a remote section of the farm. The next day, I counted thirty-one buzzards circling it. Eventually the carcass was picked clean, but the bones lay there for months as a reminder of the hatefulness and wastefulness of these road-hunting terrorists.

Shortly after I’d confronted that road-hunter, I left the farm for home. Six vehicles circled around the loop. Two vehicles—a truck and a dark SUV—parked just across the road from my main driveway. Would they block me in if I went home? I decided not to turn in at my house and drove instead down to the barn. There I spotted my next-door neighbor—a special investigator for the sheriff’s department—turn into his driveway. I immediately drove there—driving past the two vehicles still parked near my driveway.

I explained to my neighbor why I was afraid to go home. He looked in the direction of the two vehicles—he didn’t recognize them either, so he went over to have a little talk with the drivers while I went down my driveway. Eventually, he pulled over all six vehicles as the others circled. I don’t know what he said, but they left. That day was when I knew for sure that terrorists were indeed among us.

Occasionally they’d drive over our lawn and leave traces that they’ve been there. One of them—so I’ve heard from several different sources— bragged about it at the local store. In fact, he used to drive over the lawn when the previous owner lived here. “He’s just jealous,” one person told me.

In September 2002, a Virginia Department of Transportation employee stopped by the house. He’d gotten a call from one of the county school bus drivers. Our crape myrtle was blocking this driver’s view when he stopped at the stop sign. The VDOT guy said that he didn’t see any problem himself—after all, as you approach the stop sign, you can see four-tenths of a mile down the road on the side where the crape myrtle is, but he had to investigate all complaints. Only three bus drivers go down our road. I’m pretty sure that the complainant was the road-hunter who only stopped for the sign when he was driving the bus—not when he drove his car or truck.

After snipping a few errant branches, I called the Transportation Department of Franklin County Public Schools to make sure my crape myrtle wasn’t in violation of anything. The director told me that bus drivers are supposed to report problems directly to her. Then she’d determine whether a problem existed before calling VDOT herself. Hmmm.

In November 2002, during the first week of hunting season, a long stretch of tire marks appeared on my lawn. The day before Thanksgiving, on the property across from my driveway, a dead and gutted deer appeared hanging from a tree. Every time I pulled out of my driveway or went to the mailbox, I’d have to look at it. Late that night, a bunch of trucks pulled into the darkness. Next morning the deer was gone. Well, I thought, that’s it. Thank goodness it was gone before my mother saw it.

As I walked on my farm Thanksgiving morning, I saw the game warden come by. I hailed her and told her what had happened. After I finished my walk, I drove home. Across from my driveway, four trucks were parked under the tree where the deer had hung. Several men were in the process of stringing up a gutted six-point buck. Enough is enough, I decided. I stopped, got out of my truck, and confronted Mr. Bus Driver.

“I know you’re doing this to annoy me,” I said, “but I can look at this and not be bothered. But this will bother my 90-year-old mother if she sees it. She is afraid of terrorists and she’ll see this as a body. I don’t want her to see this. Will you please take it down?”

“I didn’t know your mother lived with you,” he said. Some of his buddies looked down, possibly embarrassed. “But this is our hunting land! We have permission to be here.”
He refused to remove the deer. He told me I’d have to call the owner of the property. I went to my house and did just that. While I called, the four trucks drove away. The deer still hung.

The owner was there within three minutes. He admitted he’d given the bunch permission to hunt on his land.

“But they don’t have to hang a deer here,” I pointed out. “[Name omitted] has plenty of land he can hang it on.”

“But no one can see it there and admire it.”

“He could hang it at his store, then,” I said. That store was also a game checking station.
The property owner said he’d talk to him. However, the deer—which didn’t have a tag on it— remained hanging.

On Friday I talked to the supervisor for our area. He told me that there wasn’t a law against hanging a dead deer so near the road and another’s property, but—since the deer didn’t have a tag—he’d call the game warden. I later heard that, when the warden appeared at Mr. Road Hunter’s house, a deer tag was produced. The deer hung for three days. Finally, late Saturday night, some trucks appeared in the dark. On Sunday morning the carcass was gone. The chain still hung —and still hangs—from the oak, though. In 2003, a second chain was added.

The Wednesday after the carcass was removed, another tire track—crossing the previous one—appeared in my lawn.

For a while, they left me alone. On March 3, 2003, however, my truck’s rear tires went flat. When my husband took the tires off to repair them, he found two spikes in one tire and one in the other. Since the rear tires were flat, I had to have backed over something on Sunday. I’d backed up in just three places: my own driveway, a neighbor lady’s driveway (when I drove her dog home), and the farm driveway. While my husband took my tires to Sears, he got a flat tire on his truck and had to pull over on Rt. 220 to fix it. Suddenly, this was more than coincidence. Hubby took his metal detector to the farm. He found scattered on our driveway a dozen spikes that someone had no doubt flung from the road.

This time, since actual damage had been done, I called the sheriff’s department and reported the incident. And I gave names of suspects. Of course, we couldn’t prove who did it, but it was doggone suspicious.

That summer, we found Budwiser bottles flung from the road into our hayfields. Usually we’d pick up a couple of beer cans from the road, too, but the bottles were always well into the field where—if we didn’t remove them—they could do some damage to tractor tires when haying started. Or a broken bottle shard could get baled into the hay where an unsuspecting horse might swallow it.

Other signs of terrorism appeared. While I was walking my elderly border collie one Monday night in October 2003, a truck drove past. I was plainly visible under the light at my garage, but I couldn’t see the occupants of the truck. They made loud animal-type noises as they turned the corner. Then I heard a shot as they went past my dog kennel. After checking that my dogs and horses were OK, I called the police and reported the incident. The following Saturday night, again when I walked the old dog, a shot ran out from the road beside my front pasture.

During deer season 2003, the harassment escalated. A series of eight deer hung less than 50 feet from my driveway. One headless one hung for 6 days until it started to rot. I could not take my mother out at all during deer season for fear of what she’d see.

In 2003, her gripe on reality had slipped even more. Several times at sunset, I’d hear her screaming. Instead of seeing a sunset, she thought the pasture was on fire. Other times, if she saw a truck driving past slowly, she screamed that someone was coming to get her. The road hunters often drove by slowly.

Sometimes groups would gather across from my driveway, sit, and stare at my house. That fall, one of my large “Posted: No Hunting” signs at the Bar Ridge farm had 14 bullet holes in it, and the entire sign was stolen the following week.

During the last winter of my 91-year-old mother’s life, I dared not take her out and let her see the hatefulness of these local terrorists. She died in April 2004. I no longer had to pretend that terrorists didn’t exist.

In November 2004, a neighbor lady came to get my mother’s clothes for her church. This lady was subjected to hootings, cat-calls and general noise from the crowd sitting across from my driveway. A young boy—the son of one of them—jumped up and down on the back of a truck, flapped his arms, danced around, and hollered in our direction.

During deer season 2004, mutilated deer parts were also left near the “no hunting” signs at my farm. (Warning: Graphic photos at end of post. I’ve sized them very small; click on them to see enlargements.)

I’d lied to my mother for three years. There really were terrorists among us.

And they’re still here.

Leaving More Marks

The nearly three inches of yesterday’s rain left the lawn mushy. Even yesterday afternoon’s strong winds didn’t dry it. When Maggie and I walked last night, I could feel the earth squishing beneath my feet.

The soft lawn proved too much temptation for one of the locals. This morning the fresh tracks showed where one of them spun his tires on the lawn last night. Well, it has been a couple of weeks since the last tracks were left. I guess we were due. . . .


The tracks were left by a smaller vehicle than the average pick-up truck. The top photo shows the direction the driver was headed; the bottom, the direction he came from. You can see in the bottom photo how the muffler left a mark. That's when he must have decided to get off the lawn before he left his muffler as evidence.

Saturday—tomorrow!—the general firearms season starts, so I can expect more vandalism—some, no doubt, involving mutilated deer corpses, shot-up signs, beer bottles tossed into the hayfields, etc. At least that’s happened in the past.

Maybe this year will be different, though. Maybe the vandals have grown up.

Do vandals ever grow up?

Leaving Their Mark

I’ve mentioned in an earlier entry that one of the downsides of rural living is the attitude—and occasionally the behavior—of some of the local rednecks. When we posted our farms several years ago, we incurred their wrath. How dare a bunch of outsiders with a strange last name tell them they can’t go where they please? Why don’t we go back where we came from?

No matter that my maiden name is Smith (think Smith Mountain) and that my roots run more than 200 years deep into Franklin County. No matter that I descend from Brigadier General Joseph Martin as do many other residents of this county and the next. No matter that I’m the third generation owner of a Union Hall farm. I “ain’t from around here” and I “ought to go back” where I came from. No matter that a goodly percentage of other Franklin County residents “ain’t from around here” either.

These newcomers/lake dwellers are also disparaged (albeit behind their backs) by some of the locals, who have no problem taking their money for goods and services.

But I don’t live on the lake. I live in rural America. And I’m educated and outspoken, qualities that these rednecks despise in their women. Consequently, I sometimes incur the wrath of a couple of the local rednecks. For a while, I kept quiet and hoped things would get better. They haven’t.

When the judge found my husband not guilty of charges brought by one of the locals, one of his buddies took issue with my husband calling me as a witness and fired off an email in which he addressed my husband as “Mushcrapko” and—though he had witnessed neither incident—was sure he knew what happened. Here’s part of his October 12 email that I "grabbed" because I wanted to preserve the original punctuation and lack of spacing. I cut the first part of the sentence of this lengthy and angry email, but you can figure it out:

You’d think that someone who drives an elementary school bus would be a little more—what’s the word I want here?—mature. Yes, he refers to me as “sweet.” Odd, since I've overheard him and his buddies on their walkie-talkies refer to me by a much less flattering term.

Late last night, someone drove on our lawn. Maggie and I walked by this section about 9:30 p.m. It was fine then. This morning, when Maggie and I went out to get the newspaper at 6:50, we saw the damage.


At 8:00 a.m., another one of the locals —the one who tried to intimidate me last March 4 by firing his shotgun three times at the edge of the road when I was getting my mail from the mailbox (and cousin to Mr. School Bus Driver)—drove by slowly, no doubt so he and his passenger could admire the damage.

Yep, like tom-cats marking their territory, those rednecks gotta leave their marks.

Signs of the Time

Over a year ago, one of the locals (big brother of this guy) destroyed the “Horse Crossing” sign on the gravel road near us. He’d been using his front-end loader to clear his property and apparently decided that he didn’t want the sign so close to him. Consequently, he pushed it over and destroyed it.


The gravel road leads to our Polecat Creek farm about a mile away and continues for a couple more miles until it adjoins the paved road that leads to Penhook. We’ve given the Smith Mountain Hounds permission to cut through our farm, so they sometimes travel the gravel road. Once in a while a cousin or two rides down it. Every so often, a woman driving a pony cart traverses that road. So, there is equine traffic on the road.

Unfortunately, the local road-hunters are fond of cruising that road. At least they go slow, the better to shoot something. However, the road is also used by speeders. After all, why would cops be there? (Answer: Because ever since I was nearly in the line of fire of a guy shooting a turkey in the middle of the road right beside my farm on the Sunday before gobbler season opened, I report illegal activities by the road-hunters—that’s why.)

My husband picked up the mangled sign the day after it was trashed. Eventually, he returned it to the Virginia Department of Transportation. For a while, the road was unmarked, and I worried about the horses and riders on the road. Because the road curves, speeders can’t see what’s ahead.

Two weeks ago, however, VDOT replaced the sign.

So far it hasn’t accumulated any gunshot holes. And it serves as a warning that maybe—just maybe—there might be non-vehicular traffic on the road.

Of course, with the approach of hunting season, a new unblemished sign is going to make an awfully tempting target for some of the road-hunters. . . .

Tribulations & the Trial

One of the downsides of rural living is occasional harassment by the local rednecks. I’ve been harassed since 1999 by a group of locals who apparently think that my posting of my farms interferes with their rights to hunt. Or something.

Anyhow, they don’t have free rein to do as they please on my property, and this galls them. Through the years they’ve tried various harassment tactics—running me off the road, driving slowly back and forth past my property, leaving a deer head in the mailbox/dead deer on the fence/deer parts by the “no hunting” signs, driving across the lawn, tossing beer bottles into the hay fields, shooting holes into my “no hunting” signs, removing my “no hunting" signs, tossing spikes into the farm driveway (March 2003), hanging headless deer less than 50 feet from my mailbox (one hung for six days in 2003), standing across the road and staring in the direction of my house, parking near my driveway and yelling at me when I go get the paper before dawn (November 2005), shooting close to me when I went to get the mail (March 4, 2006), etc. You get the picture. (And often I do, too. Thank goodness for digital cameras!)

At first, I didn’t notify authorities—except for my neighbor, an investigator for the sheriff’s department, who convinced the locals to temporarily behave on a few occasions—because I thought maybe they’d get tired of harassing me and I’d be left alone. I wasn’t. For the last two years, however—since I was surprised at the mailbox before dawn in 2005—I’ve been reporting offenses.

Recently, one harasser, who has been a nuisance since 2002 (this year he often walks the road past my house while he carries a big stick), apparently decided that—since the other tactics weren’t working—he would try a new one: he'd file warrants against my husband.

When Mr. Redneck walked by (with big stick over shoulder) one Sunday morning, my husband was unloading guns from his truck and decided to empty the small pistol into a target we have on our woodpile. I was sitting on the deck grading papers. Mr. Redneck wasn’t close; he didn’t come by until after I’d yelled at my husband for firing three shots that scared the birds. Mr. RN noted in his warrant, which he didn’t file until nearly four months later, that John had fired three shots. In court today, he said he only heard one shot. (Gosh, you think he would at least review his own warrant before going to court.)

His second warrant is the classic, though. (I’ve blacked out his name):

In case you can’t read his writing (click on the warrant to enlarge), this is what it says:

Walking up road got close to John he is push mowing side of road he pats his pocket to let me know he has a gun, he staresat me I stare back, walk to end of road come buck he has Lown mower in middle of road turn up side ways, standing behind Lown mower waiting on me made several cummats then said he would shoot me I stood there for awhile, then turn around gave him the middle finger and walk off.

Now, you don’t have to be much more intelligent than Mr. Redneck to see the holes in his logic:

If Mr. RN is afraid my husband has a gun, why did he “get close” to my husband? Why did he not go back the other way instead of going a few hundred feet and then turning around and walking past again?

My husband actually had a screwdriver in his pocket because he’d been having trouble with the carburetor on the old push mower he was using and figured he’d have to adjust it. Why did Mr. RN assume it was a gun?

As for Mr. RN’s remark “staresat” (sic), my husband did indeed stare at him. We both watch him because he is one of a group that has been harassing me for years. Given his past behavior, we’d be foolish not to keep our eyes on him when he is so close to us or our property.

He neglected to mention that he didn’t just stare back—he mimicked my husband by cupping his hands (thumbs to forefingers) and putting his cupped hands in front of his eyes and moving them back and forth. That’s when my husband, in a lapse of his usual good judgment, returned the rudeness by making an equally rude remark to him. He didn’t, however, tell Mr. RN that he would shoot him. The exact words: “You and your big brother ain’t [insert 4-letter expletive here].”

If Mr. RN misunderstood what was said to him and actually thought my husband was going to shoot him, why did he stand “there for a while” and why would he give my husband “the middle finger”? That doesn’t make sense. (Even for someone who isn’t very bright.)

However, it didn’t make sense either on March 4, 2006, when Mr. RN stood by and watched one of his buddies harass me by approaching me (within 20 feet) and shooting his shotgun three times into the ground by the side of the road as I was getting the mail from our mailbox. Yeah, I did report that incident to the sheriff’s department.

It also doesn’t make sense that my husband would be “waiting” for Mr. RN. My husband had no way of knowing where Mr. RN was going or for how long. Heck, he didn't even know that Mr. RN was coming down the road in the first place. It would not make sense for him to stand in the road where he could be run down. Our road curves so you can’t see what is coming, and many people speed along along that stretch. My husband was on our own property trouble-shooting his lawn mower. He had the lawnmower turned over on the side of the road (on our property!) because he’d just hit a stump while mowing and bent the blade.

If Mr. RN is so intimidated, why does he choose to walk past our property so often?

Anyhow, the trial was today. A couple of my other harassers showed up to give Mr. RN moral support. One even winked at my husband. A game warden was called as witness for the prosecution.

My husband acted as his own lawyer and called me as a witness. Because I was his witness, I was sequestered and couldn’t hear Mr. RN’s testimony. (However, before the trial got underway, my husband asked the judge for permission to tape the proceedings and it was granted, so I got to hear everything later.)

My husband declined to testify in his own behalf. (Why bother? I’d already said what needed to be said and the judge had copies of the strangely worded warrants. Plus he'd looked at my pictures of the alleged crime scene.) So, the game warden didn’t have to testify, and the prosecutor didn’t get to cross-examine.

The whole trial took less than 15 minutes.

The verdict? NOT GUILTY on both counts.

I guess there's some logic to that old saying, "The truth will set you free."