Peevish Pen

Ruminations on reading, writing, rural living, retirement, aging—and sometimes cats. And maybe a border collie or other critters.

© 2006-2018 All rights reserved

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Location: Rural Virginia, United States

I'm an elderly retired teacher who writes. Among my books are Ferradiddledumday (Appalachian version of the Rumpelstiltskin story), Stuck (middle grade paranormal novel), Patches on the Same Quilt (novel set in Franklin County, VA), Them That Go (an Appalachian novel), Miracle of the Concrete Jesus & Other Stories, and several Kindle ebooks.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

A Day of Contrasts

This morning, I went to the Smith Mountain Lake AAUW meeting at Westlake Country Club. It’s always fun to go to the country club, converse with other educated women, hear an interesting program (today's was presented by an investment counselor), and have a good lunch. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

About 1:10 p.m. when I returned home, one of the local rednecks (the milk truck driver who’d threatened to kill me in 1999) already had parked his truck by the stop sign across from my driveway. While I was getting out of my car at my garage door, Mr. MTD—in his deer-hunting uniform of camo and blaze orange—stood up in the back of his pick-up truck—the better for me to see him, of course—and was joined by Mr. Redneck of the "Tribulations & the Trial" entry. I took out my camera and snapped a picture in case I later needed to prove they were there. Mr. RN got out a camera and took my picture (I think).

Today was the first day of the general firearms season for deer. Naturally, these guys had to make their presence known. They'll never forgive me for (1) posting my land and (2) reporting their violations to the game warden or sheriff's department.

While I did a bit of housework, my husband fixed himself a cup of tea and sipped it while standing in the garage. Mr. RN took his picture. (Note: Mr. RN—who only a few months ago had sworn under oath to the court how terrified he was that my husband would shot him—gave my husband the middle finger yesterday as they drove in opposite directions. At least taking pictures doesn’t involve rude gestures.) My husband finished his tea and came back inside. Redneck watching is an incredibly boring activity. One can only endure so much of it.

Later RN and MTD and RN’s little boy sat on the tailgate of the truck and swung their legs. (I’ll give them the benefit of a doubt: possibly they were absorbed in a deeply philosophical discussion. More likely not, though.)

At two, they were still there. At least they were where we could keep our eyes on them (should we even want to) and not running rampant over our farms and shooting up goodness-knows-what. However, they were gone at three when I went out to scrub the horse and dog buckets and water all the critters.

Technically they’re not stalking me because they aren’t on my property. But why do they feel the need to camp out at the stop sign across the road from my driveway? What pleasure do they derive from watching me?

Picture taken from my garage at 1:12 p.m., November 18, 2006.


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