Love Life on the Farm

THINGS GOING BUMP IN THE NIGHT

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Viewed from a distance, sitting on top of a small hill and surrounded by hemlock, poplars and black walnuts, our old farmhouse looks like it might be haunted and must be inhabited by all types of “haints”, poltergeists or spirits. This assumption is especially fitting when viewed during the darkness of night. Some of my students have even made comparisons of Casa de Miller to the “Bates’ Motel” of Alfred Hitchcock fame. So haunted it looks, in the thirty years we have lived here not one Halloween trick-or- treater has had the intestinal fortitude to come to our door despite the brightly burning outside light. I have to admit I have seen unexplained movements just inside of my vision’s periphery and have heard noises I just could not explain as the “creakings” of an old house. “I ain’t afraid of no ghost!”

Built in 1888, it sits on top of oak timbers milled from the land it was built upon. Although we did not know it at the time, our old home had beadboard walls and ceilings to go with pine flooring, wavy lead glass windows, and was covered by tin shingles. It also sat bathroom-less with no plumbing or electricity until 1956. My guess is that most of the winter functions “back in the day” took place in the small kitchen due to the heat produced by the cook stove and the close proximity to the path leading to the distant outhouse. The old house also had no insulation until 1956 when shredded paper insulation was blown into the walls. Sixty years later, my guess is the insulation has compressed just a wee bit. Mr. Copeland, Hemlock Hill’s previous owner, was a fount of information with a former minister’s well developed “sense of the spoken word.” In preparation for his retirement, he had purchased the house and land in the 1950’s after it had sat empty for several decades. Later it would be inhabited by human beings off and on until Mr. Copeland finally retired from “preachin’ the Gospel” in the late Seventies. I say “inhabited by human beings” only because it was and still is inhabited by more than just two-legged animals and their four-legged pets as we found out when removing the cheap paneling and ceiling tile covering our beadboard walls and ceilings.

While moving in we noticed the quilting room, complete with quilting racks and their supports, had no paneling or ceiling tile. Mr. Copeland had converted the quilting room into his study and informed us the whole house was done with the old-fashioned beadboard the study sported. He had put cheap quarter-inch paneling up to help insulate the house. Really? Quarter-inch? The next month or so “lifetime” was dedicated to the removal of the ceiling tile and paneling. We found out two things. Similar to his verbal skills, Mr. Copeland believed if one nail would do the job, four ought to be used…more if there happened to be a pine knot nearby. His philosophy seemed to be “Nothing done could be overdone.” The one-by-four-inch strips of wood that held the ceiling tile were almost impossible to get down because of the four ten-penny nails spaced every foot or so. Our second discovery was that Mr. Copeland had no issue about covering up dirt dauber nests or bird pooh. The same was true of the paneling but, at least, he used the small paneling nails…thousands of small paneling nails. There were also several large snakeskins found, not only in the attic but in other rooms as well. Okay…where there are snakeskins….

Old houses make noises. Creaks and groans make me wonder if there is a “life” existing inside of our old home. There were other noises that could not be explained away as just the “settling” of the old house. Some of the ghostly noises we heard emanated from the old attic and a downstairs…for lack of a better descriptor… “cubby hole” in the upstairs master bedroom. Thumps and squeaks with the pitter-patter of little feet led us to believe that there had to be a herd of mice in our downstairs “cubby hole.” There were also those periodic booming sounds as something traversed the metal roof during the darkest moments of the night that didn’t sound like a mouse. One night Linda and I decided to explore the “cubby hole” and its strange noises not really wanting to find a colony of mice. We didn’t. Instead, we found a colony of flying squirrels. It’s amazing what the width of a tail will do to your mood, especially when one of the “big eyed” rodents decided to make his getaway by gliding from a rafter to a small opening that led to the outside. “Rocket J. Squirrel” didn’t stay there. Later we would find colonies in unused chimneys, behind my books in the study. One “little gamester” would send our indoor cat “Minnie Muffin” into a “hissy fit” as it glided back and forth between the fireplace mantle and bookcase in the study. The booming noises on the roof? We still have no idea and just named it a “boomer.”

Typically, male, I came in from a morning of cutting and splitting wood, pulled off my boots and socks, stuffed the socks into the boots and left them in the hallway next to our staircase…for about two weeks. Linda finally took me to task, firstly, over leaving them for her to trip over and secondly, because, according to her highly developed sense of smell, they stank like something dead. I took offense to the idea that my boots stank until I took out a sock and found what I thought was a dead rat rolled up in it. Our simultaneous “GROSS!” exclamation changed to an “OH NOOOOO!” exclamation when it turned out to be a flying squirrel. From here our explanations of its unfortunate demise took two different paths. I said that death was due to it rolling up in the sock and becoming trapped. My love explained that it met the grim reaper after having breathed the stench of my boots.

We may have become too used to the creaks and groans that our home emits…or maybe to the ghosts, spirits or flying squirrels who decided that our home was just too crowded for them. I just don’t hear them anymore and it makes me feel just a bit sad. Those scratches made by the real mice? That’s another story or five for another day.

If you enjoyed this story, you might be interested in Don’s books which maybe downloaded on Kindle
Inspirational true stories in WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING $1.99 on Kindle at http://goo.gl/DiO1hcX
“STUPID MAN TRICKS” explained in Don Miller’s FLOPPY PARTS $.99 on Kindle http://goo.gl/Ot0KIu “Baby Boomer History” in Don Miller’s PATHWAYS $3.49 on Kindle http://goo.gl/ZFIu4V
All maybe purchased as paperbacks.

A GOAT IN THE WELL

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My Bennett family friends had given my wife a tape of a minister delivering the African-American version of a hellfire and brimstone sermon using the story of a goat that had fallen into a well to provide an example of “shaking bad things off and then stomping them down.” The old farmer, not sure of what to do, had decided to bury the goat where it was but the old goat had other ideas. As the soil landed on the goat’s back, he would just shake it off and then stomp it down until finally he had raised the level of the bottom of the well so that he could jump right out. The morale of the story being “No matter how bad things are, just shake them off and stomp them down.” As a child I had heard a variation involving a frog that had fallen into a milk pail and saved himself by kicking so hard he churned the milk into butter. Since then I have heard similar stories using a donkey. For my purposes, I’ll stay with the goat because, for a short period of time, we decided to raise goats.

Linda Gail and I did not actively think out the process and say, “We need to go out and get a goat.” No, as you can tell from my other stories, rarely do we think out anything. A friend of my wife had a goat but because of an impending move, he needed to find a home for the aptly, if not creatively named, Nannie. Nannie, a pet from birth, had been imprinted upon by humans and could not understand why she wasn’t included at the dinner table. There were many times she would startle us. After having found a way out of her little compound and seeing the back door open, she would push her way into the kitchen and say hello. Hello!

Later, when I decided that putting a goat on a leash was not a good idea, I created a fenced-in paddock around a stream covered in briars, small trees and Kudzu and complete with a little goat lean-to. We purchased two Alpine milking goats and stood by watching our new acquisitions in the middle of their plush pasture…starving to death. They wouldn’t eat. A local goat authority, and character in his own right, told me they were too “high fa lutin’” and needed a briar goat to teach them what to eat. He didn’t say, “briar”; he said “Brraaaaar goat.” Then he sold me one for thirty-five dollars. Enter Newt, as in neuter or what is known as a steer goat. It was Newt’s responsibility to teach Nugene and Nicholette what to eat…which turned out to be pretty much anything. Did you pick up on the “N” names? Blame my wife.

Newt was a goofy looking thing. Gray in color, heavy bodied with the skinniest of legs, he had two misshapen horns that gave him an expression of perpetual awe. Turning his head to the side, he always had the look of someone who had a question…like maybe “Why did you cut them off?” Also, he was, first and foremost, a pet. Like Nannie, Newt believed he should be included in all family activities… and in many cases was. Our briar goat was more curious than most cats and this sometimes got him into trouble without the safety net of having nine lives. Once, while staked out in a specific area to eat kudzu, he decided to stick his nose into a hornet’s nest. When I saw him next, his head was the size of a basketball. He was about to choke to death because the dog collar tightened due to his rapidly expanding neck. I quickly released him and then waited for him to die when all of the poison from his head reached his heart. I watched his head literally deflate like the oft spoken of “nickel balloon.” After all of that trauma, he still survived!

One of our Alpines once needed a transfusion…at three in the AM. I was sent home to retrieve Newt to bring him back to the animal hospital so he could supply the blood for the transfusion. With no way to actually transport a goat, I stuffed him into the cab of my pickup and off we went. Thank goodness there were few vehicles on the road at three o’clock in the AM… but there was this one drunk. The look I got from him as he eyed the cab was “Son, that is one ugly closing-time honey!”

Periodically, the old cistern that served as our water source needed to be cleaned and serviced. I discovered the hard way that if the level of sand in the bottom of the dyke accumulated too high, that sand would get into the backflow valve causing it to stay open and the pump would lose its prime. One summer morning I found myself having to clean the dyke and to replace the aforementioned valve. Newt decided he would join me, lending whatever “moron” support I might desire. I thought it was cute but would not think so a few minutes later.

My guess is that Newt’s lineage came from a mountain goat because he always liked to climb to the highest point – up onto a stump, or up onto a rock or into the back of my pickup truck and once even onto the cab. As soon as we got to the cistern, he hopped up on top of the corrugated metal sheet cistern cover and disappeared, in the blink of an eye, when the metal sheet gave way. The look on his face was priceless as was mine I am sure. He was a tall goat and I could clearly see his head peering over the top of the cistern, his face mirroring the “What the f…?” question running through my mind. I remembered the story of the goat in the well but decided burying him was out…although when he decided to explore the hollowed out cave behind the dyke I thought I might have to. When he came back into sight, he stumbled and broke off the backflow valve. For a moment, I dared to ponder how goat BBQ might taste.

All’s well that ends well, I guess. With a lot of straining and pulling, I extracted the hundred and fifty-pound goat from the well and then replaced the backflow valve. Later I had to make an uncomfortable phone call to my wife explaining why she might want to boil any water we might drink or cook with for a while. I understood salamander pooh was okay but just wasn’t sure about goat pooh. Was it my imagination or, for a while, did our drinking water taste a lot like a wet wool blanket smelled?

If you enjoyed this story you might also enjoy:
Inspirational true stories in WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING by Don Miller #1.99 on #Kindle goo.gl/DiO1hcX

“STUPID MAN TRICKS” explained in Don Miller’s FLOPPY PARTS $.99 on Kindle
http://goo.gl/Ot0KIu

“Baby Boomer History” in Don Miller’s PATHWAYS $3.49 on Kindle http://goo.gl/ZFIu4V

TOTALLY ILL EQUIPPED

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BELIEVE IT! Our forefathers were built of sterner stuff!
Our power is off and I am writing this by virtue of the wonderful modern technology we possess, a battery powered laptop. I am also freezing despite the roaring fire I have going and the worry I feel that my lower than normal wood reserves will dwindle to nothing before Blue Ridge Coop gets the power back on. It can’t be much above freezing in here. I also wonder how previous generations survived. You see, here in the “Dark Corner” of upstate South Carolina, we are having a major winter event. I live in the South where most of our “snow storms” would be classified as a mist if it were rain and an inch of snow can bring everything to a screeching halt…except the dairy and bread baking industry. Ours was a doomsday forecast with copious amounts of predicted snow falling followed by freezing rain and sleet followed by more snow. We are on the thin line separating more freezing rain from more snow. I pray we are on the snow side of that line and as dawn breaks I see we probably were. It looks to be some six to eight inches of compacted snow and ice. So let’s get the power back on okay?

Nearly thirty years ago, my wife and I decided to purchase a farmhouse built in 1888. Built on top of oak timbers milled from the land, it had bead board walls and ceilings, pine flooring, wavy lead glass windows, all covered by tin shingles. Thirty years ago we were big on “ambience,” today we are big on “KEEPING WARM!”

The old house sat empty from the Forties until 1956. It also sat bathroom-less with no plumbing or electricity and no heating system other than the five fire places and the wood “cook stove” sitting in the kitchen. It is my guess most of the winter functions “back in the day” took place in the small kitchen due to the heat produced by that the cook stove…and the kitchen’s close proximity to the path that lead to the distant outhouse. The old house also had no insulation until 1956 when shredded paper insulation was blown into the walls. Sixty years later my guess is the insulation has compressed just a wee bit. Thankfully we added a modern “edition” that is well insulated but still the temperature just can’t be much above freezing in here…can it?

Can you imagine keeping five fireplaces and a wood stove fed during the winter months? We found a broken cross cut saw, forgotten in a closet, which I am sure is a tribute to the “stuff” the original owner’s had. I have a top of the line, modern chainsaw and since my last bout of sciatica from splitting wood with an axe and maul, a yearning for a hydraulic splitter. I can’t imagine keeping those fireplaces fed with modern technology much less with just an axe and crosscut saw. Did they just freeze if someone comes down with sciatica? I hear people “yearning for the good old days.” Really? Maybe simpler, less stressed out days. More time to spend with family instead of trekking to and from the office maybe…. Just remember “more family time” might be sitting around the kitchen stove for the heat or family wood cutting and splitting expeditions.

YEAAAAAAA! THE POWER’S BACK ON! Quick turn up the heat! Wait, the furnace thermostat says it’s a balmy sixty degrees. Sure seemed colder. Yes, they were built of sterner stuff…or thicker blood.

SUMMER OF LOVE

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This is an excerpt from a story, “Summer of Love,” that can be download with the book PATHWAYS using the link http://goo.gl/ZFIu4V

How did I react? I was pretty much oblivious. I knew about the war and did not want to go fight in a distant rice paddy. The Summer of Love decade in San Francisco, however, was nothing like the summer of love decade for me in Indian Land. From 1964 until 1969 I was so in love I could not think about anything that did not involve my raging hormones. A little blond girl had me by the short hairs and would not let go even when we weren’t seeing each other. For five years we drifted into and out of each other’s lives until I figured out the dynamics that were at play and managed to end it for good. Even then she may have contributed to a divorce in 1978, despite the fact I have not seen or spoken to her since 1969. I was a late-blooming baby boomer who was primarily a blooming idiot. The day we met, in the late summer before our freshman year in high school, I was walking up the dirt road from the river to my home after an afternoon of hay hauling. Not exactly dressed to impress in hay and mud-covered blue jeans, a tee shirt covered in sweat and grime, and “s@#$ kickers” that got their name honestly. I might have had on a straw cowboy hat but it would not have been described as “jaunty.” I am sure I did not make a great first impression. I am also positive when I stammered a greeting of “Hey, how y’all doing?” her first estimation of me was even further reduced. Sharon Leigh Busch, however, made my heart stop or, at least, flutter. Already “full-figured” in a Rubenesque way, fourteen-year-old Sharon Leigh had the attention of the fourteen-year-old me, even though she was dressed quite sedately in her longish shorts and fully-buttoned oxford cloth blouse. With short blond hair and blue eyes to go with the clear, alabaster skin poems are written about, her lips were red without benefit of lipstick. Not fully understanding why I was attracted to those lips, I am sure I was a sight standing there with jaws slack and agape, acting like the country hick that I was.

Don Miller has also published two other books

Inspirational true stories in WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING by Don Miller #1.99 on #Kindle goo.gl/DiO1hcX

“STUPID MAN TRICKS” explained in Don Miller’s FLOPPY PARTS $.99 on Kindle http://goo.gl/Ot0KIu

All books may be purchased in paperback.

BOOMER

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Boomer was named by one of Linda Gail’s basketball players, Cullen Gutshall, during a celebratory gathering to honor their basketball team at the end of a successful season. Celebration wasn’t an unusual occurrence as most of Linda’s basketball and tennis teams were successful. And as usual, I had been roped into assisting. “Have spatula – will grill.” Cullen had decided, with reason, that our large, beautiful, one-eyed and one-legged Rhode Island Red looked like a “Boomer.” I would have named him “Long John Silver” or “Lucky” for obvious reasons…but I am getting ahead of myself.
We had purposely not named any of our chickens for two very good reasons. First, you shouldn’t name what you are planning to eat. Second, chickens and roosters don’t usually come running when you call their names unless, of course, you have a handful of scratch feed to bribe them with. I should clarify that in number one I said planned to eat because I am here to tell you, “We ate nary a one.” Nor did we eat any of the “meat” rabbits we were raising; however, between the rabbits and chickens, we grew wonderful sweet-tasting tomatoes using their droppings as fertilizer. Can you say “organic?”
Boomer was either the luckiest or the unluckiest animal in my barnyard… depending upon your perspective. Unlucky because he was locked in the chicken coop with his son for an entire day. Do you know what two cocks do in order to while away the hours when locked in a chicken coop? I don’t know how long they fought but when I discovered the closed door and opened it, the yet un-named Boomer quickly exited having lost multiple feathers and an eye during the fracas. He had also lost his standing as the flock’s “alpha” male. Boomer did what any loser might do, he ran away and hid. He disappeared for several days until I thought I heard what turned out to be the weakest of “cock-a-doodle-dos.” He had managed to get himself trapped in an old lettuce sack and was in the process of thirsting to death. I had to cut him out as one plastic strand had become wrapped tightly around one of his legs just below where the “drumstick” began. The normally bright yellow shank had turned a shade of sickly gray. I feared he would die from gangrene but instead, several days later, the leg just fell off and he survived! Boomer was as lucky as any one-eyed, one-legged rooster could be!
All things considered, Boomer adapted quite well. He developed a gait that involved stepping with his good leg and then flapping his wings to get him back onto his good leg. It was a “step-flap-step-flap” cadence. When in a hurry, he was quite humorous to watch and as quick as you would expect a one- legged rooster to be. Unfortunately, he was not quick enough. Normally there were two times when he was in a hurry – to get away from the younger rooster or when he was “à la recherche d’amour” …and he was always looking for love. There was a problem. All the hens knew they were faster than he was or knew that all they had to do was hop up onto a fence to escape his advances.
Hopping onto a fence was how he got his name. Cullen watched him use his wings to propel himself onto the fence between two hens. After wobbling like a broken weathervane, he fell off, landing with a thump and a cloud of dust. Cullen laughed like the crazy person she was and exclaimed, “He fell off and went Boom!” After the third or fourth time the name Boomer had stuck. Poor Boomer was no luckier with the ladies than he had been at life. He eventually arrived at the idea of hiding in the shrubbery in hopes that “une jeune fille” might happen by. If he was lucky and a hen walked by, he would explode out of the shrubs and…well this story is rated for all audiences. Unfortunately, the hens adapted and began to stay away from the shrubs. I believe I had said in a previous story that chickens weren’t too bright. I may not have given them enough credit!
I don’t remember how long Boomer lived but I’m sure it was much more than the somewhat average seven years. I am also sure that his longevity was due to the special care and love given to him by Linda Gail. Short of playing the role of a pimp, Linda saw to his every need. Extra food, yummy beetles and caterpillars, a warm place to sleep in the shrubs…I should have had it so good. I’ve always said if the Hindu’s are correct and we are reincarnated, I want to come back as one of Linda’s animals…except the beetles and caterpillars.
Late in his life, Boomer took to lying in the sun in the one spot of the heavily-treed yard that does receive sunlight for a long portion of the day. He would stretch out his wings which were still inky black and the sun would reflect off of them like a freshly-polished black car. The red, orange and yellow on his neck were just as bright as they had been years before. I don’t guess feathers turn gray like hair. Despite his bad luck he had outlived all of our original chickens. In fact, he was so old that he no longer paid attention to the “spring chickens” in our small flock. That was how I found him on his last spring day. He had died quietly in his sleep while lying in the warm sun. When you think about it there might not be a better way in the world to go…in your sleep, contented and warmed by the sun.

THE FRONT GATE PART TWO

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I have spent over forty years involved in athletics and have a love for great expanses of well-manicured Bermuda grass. My wife does not share that love. Compromise is a necessary component of a solid marriage but as I look through the gate I see nothing that is well-manicured. I see a tangled expanse of…jungle. Glad I was able to compromise. Our yard would be best described as a wildlife preserve…all at Linda Gail’s insistence. Any weed that puts off a pin-sized bit of color is a flower to be prized, a stalk that a butterfly or humming bird might avail itself to must be preserved. Any twig found near a morning glory must be pushed into the ground to support that most favored flower. Milkweed is in abundance for the Monarch butterflies. Lord preserve me from the wrath of my wife if I happen to cut one. Plants of all types are found together with no rhyme or reason and she has created a haven for animals of all types…even some who have become unwanted visitors to our home. I consider myself to be truly blessed despite my earlier “Donald” moment and smile at the memories of my bride sprinting naked from our old-fashioned bathroom. Sprinting and yelling, “Snake! Snake! Snake!” I imagined the snake, a six-foot-plus black rat snake, yelling in my head, “Naked Woman! Naked Woman! Naked Woman!” as it tried to escape up the wall behind her.

The summer of our first year living as farm owners we returned late to our yet-to-be air conditioned farmhouse. The late July heat and humidity were still evident when Linda Gail decided to bathe. Believing that the bright overhead incandescent light bulb simply added to the heat, she had entered the bathroom in the dark and, after beginning to run her water, stripped, reached down and plugged in the small lamp that sat next to the lavatory. As the light dimly flooded the small bathroom, she found herself staring at the snake that was coiled below the short electrical cord. Typically male, my attention was drawn to the vision of a fit, well-shaped woman with fabulous…eyes running naked through the house and not on the snake that was trying to escape in the other direction. There is always a price to go with the vision I was enjoying. Someone had to remove the snake…but first I had to find it.

Years later, after a series of renovations that included air conditioning, we decided to build a deck off our new upstairs bedroom suite. One morning we observed a large raccoon taking advantage of seeds that had dropped from bird feeders that I had hung from the deck. “OOOOH! Isn’t it cute? She really is big. Look at her little well-formed hands. OOOOH.” We loved her…until later that night. When we renovated, Linda Gail decided she wanted double French doors and a big deck…off of our upstairs bathroom. For some reason I have always thought it was odd to locate a deck this way but it was the only way to have a deck off of the bedroom…and what Linda Gail wants…. That cute raccoon decided she would use her cute little hands to open the French doors and try to make off with a large bucket of cat food. Discovered in the act by my darling, a tug-of-war ensued over the bucket, until Rocky Raccoon was popped with a towel when she refused to back off.

As you can tell, a lot of our lives has revolved around Linda Gail’s love for animals. We have always had pets – multiple dogs, a cat or two and, of course, that rat snake that lived in our attic along with its mate and what turned out to be a family of flying squirrels. ”Honey, we have to get them out. They might chew through an electric wire and burn down the house.” “Oh, we will cross that bridge if we need to.” Need to? Couldn’t that involve having to build a new house? Oh yes, they are still there and I shudder to think how many generations have joined them. Maybe with the snakes…please don’t suggest anything of the sort to Linda Gail or I will find myself on a snake safari in our attic.

Even when we have attempted to portray ourselves as actual farmers, more times than not, we have found ourselves in a cross between American Gothic and a gothic horror story…or gothic comedy. I remember standing in front of this same gate one afternoon after returning from a nearby coaching clinic. I stood in confusion as I wondered why there were sheets strung like hammocks between the hemlock trees in our front yard. When we first moved to the foothills of the Blue Ridge I made the mistake of commenting that since we had a chicken coop we needed to get a few laying hens. The mistake was saying it in front of Linda Gail’s dad, Ralph. “You know? There’s a guy down the street from me trying to get rid of a couple of chickens.” Thirty hens and two roosters later I had to say “Enough with the poultry.”

A mixed bunch from several different sources, our game hens took offense to our robbing their nest for eggs and decided to take advantage of our free range farming techniques. They just disappeared and after a while we believed that they had been kidnapped by Br’er Fox who had been shopping for dinner. Imagine our reaction to hearing the “peep, peep, peep” sounds of baby chicks emanating from the squirrel nests high in our hemlock trees. Temporarily struck stupid in amazement, we never considered how they would make their way to the ground. Their mothers hadn’t considered it either. Chickens, at best, are not the brightest animals God created and they fly only slightly better than rocks. Chicks? They don’t fly at all but simply make a sound reminiscent of a nut being cracked when they hit the ground. Linda Gail decided that sheets strung under the trees was a better option than running around trying to catch them with a butterfly net that we didn’t have. She is one of the brighter animals that God created and was able to save most of them.

When we met I knew there was something special about her. She had an inflated pumpkin on her head and was hiding behind a bar. She was my roommate’s former girlfriend and even after their last breakup I was slow to grasp that she was feeling the same spark that I had been feeling. After a most pleasing and unexpected face-sucking session after an impromptu stop off at a local “watering hole,” I still did not push the issue. It had to be the alcohol and she was my ex-roommate’s ex-girlfriend after all. I should have been concentrating more on the ex-part than the girlfriend part. After fumbling the chance, I got one more opportunity when she stopped by at the end of a football practice and asked if I would take her to The Casablanca, a blues club on River Street. She wanted to hear an old friend of hers sing and play the piano. Sounds exotic doesn’t it? The Casablanca on River Street sounds sexy…but it was not! It was a rundown brick building and not a white house at all. There was no view overlooking a river, and it was anything but exotic, unless you find Harley Davidsons exotic. No, while the name invoked visions of “Rick’s American Café,” I did not see anyone who resembled Humphrey Bogart or Grace Kelly. Previously having read an advertisement stating that “proper dress is required” I decided that I must dress somewhere between casual business and formal funeral parlor i.e. sport coat, dress pants but no tie. I’m glad I didn’t go for a “Casablanca” inspired dinner jacket and bow tie. As we walked through the door, the first view I had was of a tattooed lady of ample girth, in a hiked-up denim skirt, sprawled on a pool table trying to make a shot without benefit of a bridge. I would guess there was a Marlboro stuck to her lower lip but was looking up the wrong end to see. Women that large can get underwear in rose prints? Who knew…I hope it was a rose print. I tried not to stare but it was almost like watching the wreck that you knew was coming. I could not tear my eyes away until I realized that the three long-haired, tattooed, and denim-clad gorillas with her were staring at yours truly ogling at her. “Linda, what have you gotten me into?”

Since walking through this gate the very first time I have asked that question a lot. We have survived tornadoes, an ice storm with a hurricane attached, and a goat in our well. Yes, a goat in our well but that is a story to be told later along with the story of the goat in the bathroom. Most importantly we have survived with each other. Now with retirement we might have to survive being with each other too much. I stood thinking how lucky I was when I heard our two blue heeler puppies begin to bark heralding Linda Gail’s entrance into the yard. “What are you doing? You are standing there like a dope.” I explained that I was debating whether or not to throw my cap in the yard. As she cocked her head side I explained, “I figured if it didn’t come flying back out it was safe to come in.” She just looked at me and said, “When has it ever been safe?” That is a pretty good summation. Interesting, exhilarating, exhausting, confusing, the descriptors can go on and on but will never include the word safe…except it does. It was time to walk through the gate to my “safe harbor” and begin to create some new memories. I am sure none will be boring.

THE FRONT GATE PART ONE

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I had just reached my turnaround. It was not my halfway point – today it was my turnaround. I had walked through my front gate pissed off and had left a wife as upset as I was. What it was about doesn’t matter. It was petty and it was my fault…even if it wasn’t. I hate that I share a first name with “The Donald!” Now I feel I share his personality… THE JERK! I stormed out to run my seven and a half miles anyway with choice words thrown over my shoulder as I pushed my way out of my old front gate. A couple of miles into my run I had a sobering thought. “What happens if I get hit by a car, have a heart attack, get eaten by a bear or abducted by aliens?” My last words to the woman I love, my companion for the last thirty years, would have been said in anger. I know I won’t be around to know but I don’t want to leave that legacy any more than I want to be eaten by a bear. As I began my run back home I climbed inside my memories and forgot about cars, heart attacks, bears and aliens. There was not a lot room left for anything else as I thought about my life with Linda Gail.

Linda Gail is a pretty, well-put-together brunette who is my third and hopefully final chance at “marital bliss.” Had you asked me what would be your “perfect” marital partner, I probably would not have described anyone like Linda Gail. That is because sometimes men don’t know what is good for them. After thirty years I guess this marriage is going to “take.” She spent thirty years teaching physical education and coaching which is another way of saying that there are at least two Type A personalities residing in our household. If you were to ask her what she coached she will answer “kids and my husband!” Specifically she coached basketball, tennis, softball and her husband. There were many nights after baseball or football games that were spent listening to her critique my game plan and its execution.

What she lacks in height she more than makes up for in personality and attitude. I have described her as a “humming bird on steroids” as she flitted from child to child in her classes or on the basketball court. For reasons that escape me this morning, I see a coltish mustang galloping in the sunshine, her curly long dark hair flowing out behind her and shining in the morning light. After thirty years of marriage this is still the Linda Gail that I see, a wild unbroken mustang ready to metaphorically stomp you to death with her hooves. No that is unfair. Persona has much to do with attitude and Linda Gail, despite our age, still views the world through the eyes of a child…most of the time. This morning her attitude was more like the wicked witch of the west…or maybe it was mine “Trumping” hers.

Happily I made it back without an encounter of any kind, much less the third kind. There were no aliens or bears, despite my fears. As I stand in front of the gate that I have stood in front of so many times over the years I wonder if Linda Gail has forgiven me and if she will ever allow me to get the Japanese Honeysuckle under control. Silently I answer both of my questions in the negative. It was almost thirty years ago that I first stood in front of this gate feeling like I had stepped into the set of “Green Acres”…”fading into the fog of time…”

…I look nothing like Eddie Arnold and Linda Gail would not be caught dead in one of Eva Gabor’s chiffon outfits. She might be caught dead in some of Eva’s jewelry but not her outfits. Even then, less than a year into our marriage, Linda Gail leaned more toward athletic wear or overalls. A diamond necklace would look great accessorizing her overalls or replacing the whistle lanyard over her sweats. Yet, despite this thought, as we first stood at the gate of a chain link fenced in yard, I was having a “Green Acres” moment gazing at the old farm house that my wife had just fallen in love with. The chain link fence enclosed a yard that was filled with hemlock and black walnut trees and was inhabited by the requisite canine, although this one looked more like a small bear. It turned out that Bear was his actual name. Bear lay in the sun and gazed at us with wary eyes until he decided we were not a threat and went back to his mid-morning nap. I did notice that while his eyes were closed, his ears were at attention and I had no doubt that should we attempt to breach the fence he would be there to impede our efforts.

Linda Gail and I had been out exploring, something that we still do on occasion, and we seem to always find some new, or at least forgotten, pig trail to travel down. She had seen the for sale sign as we drove by and forced me to turn around and go back. We were sort of house hunting and looking for a home to fix up that sat on five acres of land. Something had to be done, we were living in a condo with three Boykin Spaniel mixes who were about to poop us out of house and, if not home, a small patio backyard. This old farmhouse appeared, at least on the outside, to fit the bill. With the heavily wooded yard and surroundings, white clapboard siding and tin roof, it certainly had the ambience. The problem was no one was home. A phone call to the realtor deflated my wife’s euphoria. The house had a contract written and signed on it with a closing date just a few days distant. The realtor told us that the owner, the Reverend James Copeland, had said that if we wanted to come out and look the place over, he would love to show it to us. Odd I thought. If you are days away from closing why would someone want to show it? Odder still was Linda’s response, “We’ll be right there!” Knowing better than to question her, I decided to go along for the ride, something that I have been doing for nearly three decades. This was not the first nor the last time I would ask myself, “Linda, what are you getting me into?”

A very gregarious and personable Mr. Copeland met us at the gate and led us inside. Linda immediately became smitten with the seventy-seven years young, Mr. Copeland, a retired Methodist minister who had purchased the home in 1956. The feeling appeared to be mutual. With his blind first wife, he immediately began to renovate. The home had sat empty for many years, had no electricity, indoor plumbing or heat other than its five fireplaces. The original outhouse was and is still on the property although now it serves as a tool shed. With help, from his “good Baptist brethren” heating, electricity and plumbing were added to the home that had been originally built in the late eighteen eighties or early eighteen nineties. South Carolina Scenic Highway 11 actually was constructed through the original two-hundred-acre tract of land and separated the home from its red barn which still stands on the wrong side of Highway 11. It does give me an opportunity to break a commandment every so often as I walk outside and look across the road. I wish that barn was….

After a tour of the home and a history lesson, the very spry and physically fit, Mr. Copeland decided that we should go on a hike to see the land the house sat on. While we had been looking for five or so acres, this particular parcel of gently rolling heavily forested land was eighty-seven acres. If you are looking to purchase land and see the description “gently rolling” don’t believe it any more than you should believe a doctor who says, “This might sting” or a dentist who says, “You might feel a pinch.” Gently rolling means up and down a lot. With seven streams cutting through ravines, dense hardwoods and vines obstructing our path, along with both a humidity and temperature over ninety, it was a tough three-hour hike for a guy who thought he was in shape. Mr. Copeland hardly puffed at all; instead, he simply “walked us into the ground” despite being over twice our age.

We enjoyed our time with Mr. Copeland but left with a “day late and a dollar” short feeling. Linda Gail was particularly deflated. The closing was at hand and it appeared that there was nothing to do but keep looking for our little piece of heaven. Sometimes fact can be stranger than fiction or if you believe in the power of prayer… The day after the date of the closing, we received a phone call from the realtor asking if we still wanted the place. Mr. Copeland had backed out of his original contract. His reasoning was that he liked us better and believed that we would love the place as much as he. After thirty years we are still here and still love it and believe no one could love it more. We continue to fix things up and have boxes in the attic yet to be unpacked.

Part two of the Front Gate will be blogged on Monday.