“Don’t throw stones at your neighbors if your own windows are glass”-Ben Franklin
After thirty years in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, we still haven’t met a lot of the local folk. We aren’t anti-social…oh…maybe we are. Since retiring, we have gotten better at meeting our neighbors but the people around here, the “my family has lived here for one hundred and fifty years” people, are a little slow to “warm up” and will look at “foreigners” with a “jaundiced eye” until you’ve been in the area for a while. After nearly thirty years, our church family still refers to us as the “new couple” that moved in across from the Runyon’s old place…and the Runyon’s haven’t lived here in a decade or more.
Our “original” across the road neighbors, Farrell and Libby Runyon, were “interesting” in every GOOD way you could use the word. Retired Baptist missionaries to Africa, our Methodist friends characterized them as “good Baptist brethren.” With over forty years spent in the southern and western areas of Africa, the Runyons were a fount of information, some that could be applied to the “Dark Corner” where we lived.
During a conversation taking place in the middle of Dr. Runyon’s pasture, he periodically would raise his hands above his head. After the fourth or fifth time, I could not control my curiosity. “Dr. Runyon, what are you doing?” “Keeping the gnats out of my face.” To emphasize, he raised his arms and sure enough, the gnats not only left his face but mine too…and hovered around his armpits. I was impressed…and concerned over Dr. Runyon’s personal hygiene…and my own as I apply this “jewel” of knowledge during the hot, humid and gnat filled days of summer.
Dr. Runyon also had the ability to make me feel like a fool…an easy task? A beekeeper, one of his little minions took offense to me bush hogging too close to their hive and nailed me right on my upper lip. During the ensuing conversation, as my lip swelled out past my nose, I asked the good doctor how they dealt with the “African” killer bees we had heard was invading the southern United States. His comment? “You know Don, all bees in Africa are ‘African’.” Really? Silly me.
One morning, after an explosive, expletive-laced argument with Linda Gail the evening before, she met Dr. Runyon at our mailboxes. Gently and with great tact he informed her that “You know, sound really travels well in this little valley.” A somewhat puzzled Linda walked to the house contemplating the significance of his comment when the consequences of arguing in our backyard fell on her, and later me, with the weight of the proverbial “ton of bricks.” Oh my, he heard everything we said.
As good as the Runyons were, so was “Dodger,” but with “Dodger,” the ravages of an ill-lived life might have caught up with him. He moved into a converted barn type building straight from Home Depot that was sitting in a clump of kudzu a quarter of a mile down Airline Road. “Dodger” later moved his new girlfriend in and they cleared kudzu, planted flowers and attempted to build their little piece of the American Dream. With no running water except what ran down the stream in front of their little mansion, they showered at the nearby park and used their outhouse for “other” needs. Just like our mixed breed, Sassy Marie, Linda Gail adopted them but stopped short of inviting them into the yard to stay.
“Dodger” could be a fount of useful information…usually as it related to “folk” remedies and sometimes even better information if it was early in the day. He taught us what to look for to treat poison ivy, jewelweed, a plant that grows almost as abundantly as poison ivy around our home. He even brought Linda Gail a “tea” made from Yarrow to treat gastric issues. We still use the jewelweed remedy but Linda Gail was a bit reluctant to try the Yarrow tea…as I was to sample his homebrew…smooooooooth.
“Dodger” had run out of luck and “gubment assistance” by the time we met and despite his best attempts, could not quite get his life together. It wasn’t because he was lazy, the man worked harder than people who were being paid money…except when he was in his “cups.” A former heavy equipment operator, his issues might have been the alcohol he made or begged off of his girlfriend and consumed at any time during the day or night.
I would say it was alcohol that betrayed his efforts. “Dodger” had refined his inebriation to an art form, never “stumbling” drunk but not quite sober either. When “not quite sober” he could talk the “horns off of a billy goat” and remember, I said he was always “not quite sober.” I also don’t believe “Dodger” liked being told what to do even though he did do “handyman” projects for Linda Gail. Seems she picks her part-time helpers according to who is the most interesting and needy. I’m not sure what that says about me.
Hesiod, the Greek poet, once wrote, “A bad neighbor is a misfortune, as much as a good one is a blessing.” We honestly don’t know about bad neighbors.
This piece was re-written from the book by Don Miller, “Through the Front Gate.” It and others may be purchased or downloaded at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
If you are interested in an erotic, romantic adventure, you might be interested Don Miller writing as Lena Christianson. Her site may be accessed at https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07B6BDD19
Ravings of a Mad Southerner 