July 2004
The drive back to West Virginia was quiet in a way it had never been before. Usually our road trips were lively—music blasting from the stereo as we cycled through The Best of the Guess Who, The Best of Bread, and Bob Seger’s Greatest Hits. Seger was always the most fun. His songs tended to dwell on lonely highways, dive bars, and some young girl at a jukebox who made him feel old. We’d take those tropes and spin our own parodies, laughing at the absurdity. But on this trip, the radio stayed off. No harmonies, no jokes. Just the steady hum of the road beneath the tires and the anxious silence between us. My mom gripped her phone, making intermittent calls to check on my dad. I stared out the window, fixating on the scenery, doing everything I could not to imagine worst-case scenarios. Not knowing the full story was easier than speaking it aloud.
When we got home, we wrapped him in hugs. He held us tight, relief written across his face. He seemed grateful to have us there, even if his body bore no marks of the fight. Mom kept asking the same question: “Are you okay? Are you really okay?” Her voice wavered between disbelief and worry.
Dad sat us down and told us what happened.
I call it the blackberry incident.
On July 8th, Dad had been mowing the yard when he noticed Dale and his wife driving up the hill on their four-wheeler. He hadn’t seen Dale in a couple of weeks, so he hopped onto his own four-wheeler and followed, hoping to catch up and say hello. He found them by the blackberry patch at the top of the hill on the east side, just above the gas well.
At first, it was small talk. The sweet-tart scent of blackberries hung in the air, but the tension was immediate. Dale’s face began to get red, his body taut with agitation.
“You accused me of stealing,” Dale spat.
Dad blinked, confused. “Dale, no. I never said you stole anything. If I gave that impression, I’m sorry—”
But the more Dad tried to explain, the more Dale bristled. His wife pleaded: “Bob is our friend, stop this.” Dale’s agitation boiled over. He swung, fist connecting with Dad’s face.
Dad staggered, then answered with a punch of his own. Dale dropped to the ground. Dad told him to calm down, to knock it off. But Dale scrambled back to his feet, angrier now, and yanked an ax handle off his four-wheeler. He swung again, wild arcs through the air. Dad dodged, landed another punch. Dale fell a second time.
Then things escalated. Dale went back to the four-wheeler and pulled out his pistol, a small .38 that fired buckshot. Dad moved quickly behind Dale’s wife, using her body as a shield and speaking firmly: “You’ve got five minutes to get off my property.” His wife finally managed to calm him enough, and they left.
Dad called the police. Then he called us.
The police gave Dad options. He could press charges—Dale would be arrested, face trial. Or he could go to the magistrate and file for a peace bond, a legal restraint requiring Dale to keep the peace or face fines, jail, or seizure of property.
Dad leaned toward the peace bond.
“Why?” I demanded. “He pulled a gun on you. I want him in jail. Now!”
Dad sighed, rubbing his face. “Because I’ve been in fights before. People get hot, they do stupid things. Usually, when heads cool off, there’s an apology, a handshake, and you move on. If this had only been a fistfight, I’d already be over it. But he pulled a gun, so that changes things. He can’t come back up here. But I don’t think putting him in jail is the answer.”
It was clear our philosophies didn’t align. I felt unheard. To me, justice meant immediate punishment. To him, deterrence seemed enough.
But deterrence came with absurd moments. Like the day we drove up the farm road and saw Dale and his wife standing on their porch, middle fingers raised high, both hands, smug as children proud of some prank. Two elderly people acting like defiant teenagers. Classy.
On July 23rd, the hearing came. We walked into the county courthouse, into a small room with rows of wooden benches—maybe enough to seat fifty. The county seal and a single flag hung at the front.
Dale had a lawyer. Dad represented himself. At first, I was intimidated by the formalities—the lawyer’s posture, her crisp outfit, the weight of the setting. But as testimony unfolded, admiration replaced my nerves. Dad was calm, confident, methodical. He poked holes in Dale’s story with pointed questions.
Dale insisted he’d only been picking blackberries when Dad attacked him out of nowhere. But the details unraveled quickly under cross-examination. His wife’s account didn’t line up with his. The lawyer looked increasingly frustrated, caught off guard, as if she hadn’t been fully briefed. That was the problem with relying on Dale: you could never trust his word.
By the end, the magistrate issued the peace bond.
My parents still hoped Dale might show humility, acknowledge his wrongdoing, and move forward as neighbors who simply didn’t get along. After all, in the suburbs where we’d lived before, that kind of cold detente was common—neighbors who never spoke except for a quick nod while mowing their lawns.
But I wasn’t so optimistic. I knew that required emotional intelligence, and Dale had shown none. Dad’s mercy was rooted in the remnants of friendship he couldn’t quite release. Mine was absent altogether. There wasn’t much I could do except watch as they made their choices.
That was the beginning of the falling out with Dale Eagle.