I never imagined that blogging would become a daily discipline. As a matter of fact, I wish this whole Hitchcockian scenario would end; but I fear this is only the beginning.
What fresh Hell did I suffer today? Yesterday? It appears that we have a neighborhood sniper on our hands, and if I wasn’t afraid before, well I am downright petrified now. We live in the middle of nowhere in a town of 250 people. Kleinfeltersville is the sleepy town of country folk, incredible beauty and, to be honest, a few of us aren’t wrapped too tightly. It is not uncommon to hear gun shots, as our neighbors have a shooting range next door. Enck’s Gun Barn is right down the road, although he has moved his business, and he is far enough away that I don’t hear those random shots in the middle of the day, or night. We are surrounded by hunters, including my long suffering husband, who was not alarmed when I called him yesterday, hysterical and barely able to take a breath for the panic attack was full blown.
“Someone just shot a raccoon in the back yard. The shot CAME FROM OUR YARD. Should I call the police?” I think it worthy to note that I love animals; everyone and any one who knows me, knows this. I am the proud owner of a cat shelter, where my feline friends are free to roam the seven plus acres at their leisure. The sight of that poor raccoon led to a melt down, and it was in this precise hysterical state that I found myself blubbering to my man. He tried to calm me by giving me a multitude of explanations, although not one of them panned out. I put this into the archives of my exhaustive brain files, and went to bed a bit more at ease.
This morning I stuck to my routine. Up at 6:30 and out the door by 7, I heard another gun shot, coming from the same direction as yesterday. Hindsight is 20/20, and I know now that going into the woods, mace and rake in hand, was as dangerous a thing as I have ever done. I knew this random lunatic could shoot me, yet I was so enraged that I screamed:
“Don’t f*** with a mother****er.” I cried out today, as I did yesterday, and asked who was in my yard. No response. I phoned Dwain, and received the same response as yesterday:
“Honey, your sister is not on the farm trying to shoot you, if that’s what you think.”
If he only knew. If he would just listen, and trust me-he might be as alarmed, if not enraged as his wife. I wanted to call the State Police barracks, but what will I tell them, pray tell? I put my golden retriever in the jeep and started off down the road. (After a knock down, drag out argument with God, in which I asked him had I not suffered enough through my life? I ranted and raved, then ended up on my knees, asking for mercy and forgiveness.) I prayed, and I asked him to please send me someone who cared enough, was safe enough, and who truly believed my plight.
Driving down the dirt road, I ran into my loving and validating neighbor Rosie. I stopped the jeep and interrupted he walk with her pit-bull. I told her my story, Reader’s Digest version of course, and awaited her response.
“Michele, I heard those shots myself. It concerned me because every one is working, and it did indeed sound as if it came from your place.”
I am not sure if this makes me feel better, or outrageously worse. And as I hiked the hills of Camp Mack this morning, I found myself wondering how much a bullet proof vest would run me: tomorrow is my brother’s concert in Philadelphia. She will be there. Sadly, knowing the children and husbands will also be attending, that is of little if no comfort at all.