Down the gravel road, on the left before the big bridge, is a place set back in the woods. The weathered sign said it was a lodge. When I first moved here, it seemed deserted. My daughter Lissa and I climbed over the driveway gate to check it out. I envisioned something stately with a stone fireplace and wood paneling.
What we found was a shack. Lissa pointed out lots of broken clay pigeons on the ground; I'd never really seen one.
It turned out that the people who came there used it mostly on three-day weekends. One of the young men stopped by and told me they came to do stuff they couldn't do in the city. They hunt deer with very loud 30.06 rifles, speed along the road on four-wheelers and set off fireworks.
Since they also shoot skeet, I've come to think of them as The Skeeters. If they were here all the time, it would be a bit much. They're far enough away that their voices are merely a happy noise. I've even stopped flinching when the guns go off.
They were up on New Year's Eve, which is not a holiday I observe much. It was dusk and I was finishing up some wood-cutting down by the river. Expecting it was the usual rifles and shotguns, I was pleasantly surprised to look up and see a fireworks display. Quickly unloading my wood up at the house, I took the rocker out on the front porch and enjoyed the show.
Also, that first year I was here, on the other side of the road from the Skeeter lodge was a house for sale. It was a bit of a fixer-upper that Lissa thought she might tackle. We got the key box combination from the realtor and looked inside.
As it later transpired, I would be grateful that she didn't buy it.
The place stayed vacant the following winter. Then the Yeller and his family moved in.
I introduced myself, but may not have made a good first impression. Carrying a dead Northern Watersnake draped over a stick, I was on my way to toss it into the river from the bridge so the dog wouldn't bring it back.
Foghorn Leghorn
My field and pond lie between our places, but the Yeller's voice could be heard distinctly as he swore at the wife and kids. I might have been living in an apartment with thin walls. He might have been living in a sawmill.
Perhaps he was trying to manage his anger, because he frequently drove past in a spray of gravel, only to return a few minutes later. He wsn't gone long enough to be running an errand, because it's ten miles to the nearest town.
The Yeller's three sweet girls ranged in age from kindergarten to high school. They came over a lot and visited me while I was gardening. I was taught that it is the height of bad manners to ask people personal questions. Those girls satisfied my curiosity by volunteering quite a lot of information about their dad. They said he had a bad back and couldn't work. So, maybe he was in pain or Mad as Hell about it, and was letting off steam. I'm sure the family had learned to ignore his continual outbursts.
My Uncle Buddy was quite a cusser. But since he was a soft-spoken, gentle man, I decided that swearing didn't make you a bad person. Uncle Buddy never swore at people.
The Yeller, on the other hand, did. I didn't mind the swearing so much as the yelling. Voices raised in anger have always made me uneasy.
People visiting me would hear him bellowing like a bull. "Charming," they'd say.
One summer day, I was dining with my knitting friend Karen on the back deck. The air got so blue that we took our meal inside the house.
Sometimes, when I wanted to knit on the deck, I would put on some very loud Beethoven. Then I could barely hear him.
The girls told me their dad didn't believe in neutering pets. That explained all the dogs they had. One basset hound was always having pups. Her short legs made for scant clearance for her outsized udders.
In a big cage out front, they kept a bunch of yappy little white dogs. The girls said they were going to sell them for lots and lots of money. The Yeller yelled at the frenzied creatures to SHUT UP; they never did.
According to the girls, the Yeller was able to work enough to fix the house up considerably. A real estate sign went up, along with my hopes. There followed two of the snowiest, coldest winters since the dreadful ones we'd had in the 'eighties.
The girls talked longingly of moving back to California. I rather looked forward to it. Finally, in May of 2010, the girls said they were definitely going in a couple of days. I made us some peach ice cream to celebrate. The next day, they left, leaving all their furniture.
Places can stay on the market for years up this way. It's so far to commute to a big city. So, once again, the house was vacant over the winter.
Lightning Strikes Once
Last summer, in late June, during a lightning storm, I heard loud pops. I thought maybe it was the Skeeters setting off Fourth of July firecrackers a little early. However, it was after midnight and it was pouring down rain.
Stepping out on the back deck, I saw flashing red and blue lights. Throwing a rain poncho over my nightgown, I went to the edge of the front yard, where I could see past the trees.
The Yeller's house was on fire. Flames were shooting out of the upstairs windows. There were fire trucks and water trucks but they were apparently too late to hose it down.
Risking the incessant lightning, I stood there watching as the flames finally engulfed the entire lower floor. I heard the windows break out. The popping and crackling of the blaze was spellbinding. Sparks flew high into the rainy sky. Then the trees around the house caught fire. The top part of the house could no longer be seen. From midnight until after two a.m. I stood there in my bare feet in the rain. By then, the fire had died down enough for the emergency vehicles to pull out.
After I got dressed and put on some rubber boots, I walked down the muddy road in the tracks left by the big trucks. All that remained of the house was a burning door frame. The metal roof was on the ground.
It was a blessing that the Yeller and his family were safe from even seeing their house burn to the ground.
That was last June. Since then, the rubble remains untouched. The fire snuffed out my hopes for a retired gentleman gardener for a neighbor.
It is, however, wonderfully quiet around here, except for when the Skeeters are out.
