January, Third Week

I keep forgetting that I am about as much a local phenomenon as it gets in these parts. But occasionally I get a reminder. This morning Billy came by to give my car a jump-start. How my car happened to be down by the pond with a dead battery is another story. . .  that solid material reality seems to be continually infringing on my carefree lifestyle.

Billy shows up with one of my neighbors. Joe had met Billy on the road when he was on his way over here. Joe came on over too-to meet his new neighbor and help out. Joe's reputation has gone before him. I suppose there is some consolation in knowing that one of the toughest sheriffs in Texas lives close by. Should I have an intruder, I would not hesitate to phone him, even though he is now retired.

Billy gets out of Joe's truck and asks for my keys. “So you guys are going to get my car for me and I don't have to do anything? All right!” I reach across the space of the passenger seat and offer my hand to Joe, “I'm Nancy Freeman. It's a pleasure to meet a neighbor who comes out to help me, even before he knows me.”

After they come back with my car, they get out to chat a while. Joe, a long tall Texan, who hefts a large orb of flesh over his wide solid silver bucket, tells me he is probably my nearest neighbor as the crow flies, just on the other side of the north woods. He had been out feeding the deer when he ran into Billy. The locals put out corn for the deer to lure them to a feeding spot in order to shoot them easily. I don't see any sport in it, but I doubt the locals are interested in my opinion. Venison has been a staple food in these parts for many years. Problem is, Joe's having difficulty with the “coons” taking the corn before the deer can find it, so Billy is going to trap them.
I mention that our biggest problem is the wild hogs that are rooting around the pond and along the creek. They have left several hillocks near the pond banks. The destruction caused by these animals is incredible; they are mini-bulldozers. In addition, from all reports, they are ferocious. They must be more dangerous than our native javelinas in Arizona that I fed regularly.

“Those hogs have been coming on this place for twenty years. Hullum was having problems with them before anyone else because they like to run along the creek. Now they have multiplied so much that everyone has them,” Joe shakes his head. “I had to get myself a hog trap. I did fine... got seventeen of them... shot three of them.”

As I make a mental note to ask Billy later just what you do with hogs after they are trapped (What happened to the other fourteen?), I mention, “My brother thought we could get a hog hunter. If they kill a few, then the rest will be frightened off the property for six months or so.”

“No, ma'am. You can't count on that. They feed down there along the creek. They'll only go away a mile or so, but they'll be back.”

“Billy, looks like you better build me a hog trap,” I turn and smile at Billy.

“No, not hogs, ma'am,” Billy shakes his head.

“No, Billy won't mess with hogs,” Joe echoes Billy's position. “You come by and see us any time,” he continues as they get into his truck.

Billy also introduced me to the local mechanic—the best in the countryside, and also the slowest. Tony never puts any pressure on himself. He brought a trailer over here immediately to pick up the old Ford tractor that needed an overhaul. Then weeks went by and it still was not ready. I went by every week or so to gently prod him along, with no luck. Two months later, the tractor was still sitting in the same place. As a matter of fact, once when I went by, Tony was not home, but I found his brother there using Tony's tools. When Charley inquired who I was, I told him I was checking on the progress of the blue tractor.

He laughed and replied, “Oh, is that your tractor? It's been here so long that I thought it was ours.”

Fortunately, he didn't seem to mind that I was collecting fresh puffball mushrooms out of Tony's meadow. They made a fine dinner. For me finding mushrooms is discovering buried treasure. Is it because they appear like magic overnight? Of course, there is the flavor issue; some wild ones are so delicious that they make the grocery store ones taste insipid. Puffballs are a good example.

I enjoy getting to know my neighbors, who are all truly good-hearted people. I met the Saffles, my nearest neighbors to the west, when I crashed their Christmas party. When I approached, Dave Saffle happened to be at the front door. "Come on in," he called out to me, even before I'd introduced myself. Dave has been a very helpful neighbor when I need some extra muscle or expertise on any house project. Harold came over with his tractor, chain saw and winch to help me when the horse Midnight got trapped in a fence. Linda donated her rototiller and some horse manure for my garden.

In a city most people don't know their neighbors right beside them. Here I am in the boondocks without a neighbor in sight, yet I have a whole network of support. I am truly grateful for all my neighbors who take time to be neighborly. They must think and live differently than me in many respects, yet they never challenge my reality and seem to accept me as I am. Perhaps living out here in the silence of the forest, they have found the inner peace that comes when one is not too busy.