The Small Town Story

This is a true story.

Snow drifts started to melt away as the sun woke up from what seemed like an irresponsible nap to most Appalachians, finally allowing us, sometimes oblivious humans, to start our perspective lives again. I was out with my old school digging shovel, digging my truck out from the remains of a heavy blizzard. Yesterday was a blur. I'd argued with a family member over something completely delusional, and I was ashamed of myself for having lost my self control and having a shouting match with someone I loved. She believed I somehow had the power to take away my dog's natural instincts and keep her from chasing a colony of feral cats. It was a losing battle. My aunt caught me in a moment of frustration while trying to dig my way to a temporary, tent-sheltered bathroom stall before I ended up having an unhealthy and desperate situation. Timing. It's a real kicker.

"You need to go back home; why are you even down here?" I yelled in an insane-induced moment of aggravation. I could not, for the life of me, figure out why this old woman was so determined to come lay out cat food during a blizzard for this annoying tribe of wild cats she genuinely believed could not fend for themselves. In hindsight, I realize I was a little too brutally direct with a lady who was set in her ways and had become accustomed to having her own time in this area of our property until I'd come back home from New York and had decided to settle here. She was still getting used to me. I was learning to get used to her. We were from two separate worlds, and they didn't match at all. And she was definitely not a dog person.

So I reluctantly apologized to her with a knot in my stomach this morning and she accepted. It was over. Life moves on.

After having a few noon day beers to calm my nerves, I placed my dog in her snow drowned lot, but not without remorse. This is a husky mix, and I feel it's such a sin to keep her locked away in the middle of the wilderness when there's snow on the ground. There's a primitive calling to run through those drifts of white and chase anything that moves. She's never killed. She's just a puppy. My heart sinks as I watch her pace back and forth, waiting for the old woman to hike back home after laying out way too much dry food for those eerie felines. I was attacked by one of them two days ago, and my right hand is still swelled and painful from the bites. I admit I don't feel that much affection for the little snots, but I'm determined I'm not going to let my anger over a few mangy cats turn me into some cranky wilderness hag who yells at old women. My mood was enhanced by a recent altercation where I found out my neighbor was threatening my dog with the thought of firearms at the notion she'd run off the deer he was trying to shoot and bring home. His hunting stand was way too close to the main road, and I didn't see any decent reasoning for the location. This guy owned acres and acres of land beside us. What possessed him to build a stand right next to the road? Baffled, I sipped on my beer and finished my book. The killer was close to being caught; Mary Higgins Clark wasn't exactly my favorite, but it was the only book left unread on my bookshelf.

Deep into the story and nerves on edge, the phone rings. I hear a most delightful story. The snow storm apparently had an effect on the women in the small town of Boomer, and they all sent their husbands shopping. Mother witnessed it while buying groceries herself. The store was teeming with elderly men, confused about their shopping lists. One, recognizing my mother, approached her. "Is this a deep dish pie crust?" The man was determined he was not going to fail his mission. She explained to him that it was a pie crust, and that one could place it in a deep dish to bake a pie. This seemed to stress him more, so he called his wife for a second opinion. She was headed down the aisle as she heard her name. Another recognition. Another question about groceries. "My wife sent me to get a bottle of wine. Is this one any good?"

I absolutely love the town of Boomer. As I write this, there is a neighbor who owns a tractor, hell bent on making sure all of us can make it out of our driveways for milk and bread before we're deprived of our staples. He runs up and down the road, clearing out everyone's driveway in his path, with his head high in the air and snow falling away in giant piles of white. Pretty soon, I'll be able to get my vehicle back in working order, and visit the only gas station within 15 miles with the lady who tries desperately to keep a conversation going with me while I'm paying for my gas. A hundred cars will be behind me, and she won't take notice. Or maybe she won't care. If I have the dog with me, she'll hand me a milk bone and ask about my little cabin. We've formed a gas station bond.

The guy who threatened I should keep my dog from barking at deer and has the hunting stand next to the road eludes me. His favorite companion is a very old, giant black German Shepherd he repeatedly states he'd be devastated over anyone ever shooting. (All the while, insinuating someone might shoot my dog if she doesn't quit scaring the deer away with her deep, intense voice..) I've entertained the notion of baking him a pie and taking it to his house. I know where he lives, and everyone on this road knows each other- except for me. I'm the alien. I'm the weirdo who just moved back home from living with the Yankees. Deep down, I feel it's simply the fact that these people haven't gotten used to me yet. They know each other well, but they don't know the strange blonde girl who's building a cabin in the woods and hasn't made nice with the neighbors. I believe there's a time for everything. And I believe that time might finally be upon me. I guess the hour to get domestic and bake a pie for the deer hunter is at hand. I can adapt. I've met a lot of people, and I've learned a lot about different lifestyles. It's been a long time since I've been in the Boonies, but I have the courtesy to realize I've been antisocial long enough. That's what you do around here. You create alliances with your neighbors, and you watch out for each other. How can anyone trust they're watching out for one another and keep that protective, old school shield if one person is out doing strange things that nobody understands? Who ever heard of a girl living alone in the woods without company, building outhouses and exploring abandoned spring houses? I don't believe this man will shoot my dog. I believe this man is just looking for a way to find out about me. Men from the mountains don't just just come out and say, "Hey- let's introduce ourselves and have a deep conversation so I can get to know you, because you're a little weird and I don't know what your intentions are in my neck of the woods." It's time to come out of my bunker and make friends.

And so I watch the sun get warmer and the birds forage for things in the trees I can't even see. They're so resourceful. I watch my relative hike back up through the snow after feeding the cats I absolutely loathe, but am determined I won't mess with for the sake of family loyalty. And another precious minute goes by, and I'm suddenly grateful again for the magical place in which I have decided to live out the rest of my life.