April 2006
It was the middle of April, one of those in-between seasons when the days felt warm enough to make you hopeful but the nights still carried a winter bite. I woke to my dad shaking me gently, his voice low but urgent. I followed him toward the master bedroom, noticing a red flicker dancing across the hallway walls. At first, it didn’t register as danger—just light where there shouldn’t be any.
When I stepped into the master bedroom, the entire western horizon glowed an angry red-orange. A foggy haze sat in the lower parts of the farm, and through it I could smell smoke—sharp, heavy, unmistakable. My dad and I exchanged the same question without saying it, but I finally asked, “What do you think that is?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. We need to see if it’s a threat to the farm.”
We took the four-wheeler over the western hill, the cold night air cutting our faces. As soon as we crested the rise, we could see the flames more clearly—high, bright, too close. The post office was only half a mile from the farm, and in the dark it felt even closer, the fire large enough to cast shadows across the road. The worst fear flashed through my mind: a gas well explosion. There were dozens scattered around the area, and if one of them had gone up, the whole hollow could have been in danger.
But as we got nearer, we saw it wasn’t a gas well at all.
It was our pulp wood.
We drove back, got into my dad’s truck, and made our way down to the post office where firemen had already blocked the road. The stack of pulp wood—twenty feet tall and heavy, stacked from the remains of our farm’s timbering—was engulfed. Flames shot so high they lit the entire clearing like daylight. I remember standing beside my dad, both of us stunned, watching years of leftover wood crackle and collapse. That wood had no monetary value, but it had purpose. We’d placed it there for the families of Four States, free for the taking, as long as no one cut it only to sell it. It had warmed homes in hard winters. It had helped people.
Now it was gone.
Through the commotion, I heard someone call, “Hi Bob! Mr. Slatt!” I turned and saw a coworker from Cracker Barrel—someone I’d forgotten was training as a firefighter. She looked exhausted, wind whipping her hair, but she still smiled. She told us they’d gotten the call and arrived as fast as they could, but the fire was already roaring. No origin point. No accelerant witnesses. Just flames.
My dad and I didn’t need to say who we thought had done it.
At this point in our lives, anything bad that happened to us or the property immediately pointed in one direction. Even without proof, the suspicion was reflexive—Dale had become the shadow that lurked behind every misfortune. It was an immediate gut reaction.
Driving home, the shock stayed with us. We weren’t angry about losing the wood. We were angry that no one in the community could use it now. We talked it through with my mom, trying to make sense of why anyone would burn something meant to help people. Even after the fire department confirmed it was arson, no one could explain why.
By the time we finally went to bed, the adrenaline had drained away, leaving only confusion, sadness, and the uneasy feeling that this was just another piece in a growing pattern.
Pepaw’s Visit
Aunt Theresa called only a few days after the fire, asking if we could take Pepaw for a week so she and Memaw could rest. Our first instinct was hesitation—between the ducks being poisoned, the post office fight and the pulp wood being set ablaze, the farm didn’t feel like the safest place for someone as vulnerable as Pepaw. But Aunt Theresa sounded worn down, and Memaw wasn’t in the best health either. They needed the break. So we said yes.
Pepaw arrived in his usual pajama bottoms and a soft long-sleeve shirt—what was comfortable for him. He shuffled when he walked, and sometimes his knees wouldn’t bend right, leaving him frustrated with his own body. But when he settled into the living room or sat on the back porch in a patch of warm sun, his old self resurfaced. He’d talk and talk—stories about South Carolina, neighbors back home, little updates from a life that felt far away from our West Virginia ridge.
We’d installed a railing from the living room to the downstairs bathroom so he could steady himself at night. He slept on the futon in the living room so he wouldn’t have to deal with stairs. Mornings were slow and peaceful: breakfast on the porch, the smell of coffee drifting on the breeze, the sun rising over the hilltops. My mom cooked chicken dishes and stuffed peppers for dinner. TV filled the evenings—shows he liked, and the occasional war movie. Master and Commander always grabbed his attention.
Pepaw served in WWII. He’d talk a little about the war, not the battles or the violence. Instead, he talked about friends—men he’d known, places he’d seen. And he’d always tell stories about picking at Memaw: the tiny pranks, the comments that made her huff and fuss. He’d grin that ornery grin while retelling them, and even though Memaw wasn’t there to scold him, he told the stories as if she might walk in any second.
Despite the tension at the property line, having Pepaw on the farm was a blessing. My mom loved having her dad close. She made sure he walked every day, one of us on each arm on the gravel road because he hated the uneven surface. He’d smile at the deer, at the sunsets he said were some of the prettiest he’d ever seen.
One afternoon, we were all on the back porch when Dale and Judy rode their four-wheeler to the property line and sat there for fifteen minutes. Pepaw asked quietly, “Is that them?” We told him yes and didn’t say more.
Looking back now, it feels almost providential that he visited when he did. Only two and a half weeks later, my mom would be gone.
Driving Home
When it was time to take Pepaw back to Wytheville, the drive felt familiar—our usual route: I-79 to Route 19, then onto 77, Cracker Barrel halfway as tradition demanded. But the atmosphere inside the car was different.
Instead of Bob Seger or The Guess Who, we listened to CDs made by the worship leader at our church. Each disc held the songs for that upcoming Sunday, and Mom practiced her harmonies as she drove. Her voice was beautiful, steady and warm, and when she sang it felt like she was offering something personal to God—something only He could fully understand.
Charlie sat in the backseat, perched in the center like our unofficial navigator. He’d stare straight out the front window, tail twitching, sometimes laying down to nap. Every time we approached a toll booth and the rumble of the pavement changed, he’d bark like he needed the world to know he was still on duty.
The drive was both escape and obligation—a reprieve from the tension at home, but also a reminder that as soon as we turned back north, reality waited for us. Mostly, though, it felt like invaluable time with my mom. Just the two of us. Music, conversation, Charlie’s barking, the hum of the road. A kind of peace I didn’t realize I’d miss so much later.
Decisions
When Mom and I returned from Wytheville, the weight of the past few weeks settled fully on us. Poisoned ducks. The pulp wood fire. Dale following my parents to the post office. The constant feeling of being watched. It became clear that we couldn’t keep living as if nothing was wrong.
That’s when I made the decision.
I would quit Cracker Barrel.
My last shift wasn’t memorable in any good way—coworkers who didn’t do their jobs, a manager who didn’t care. But even with the relief of leaving, it stung to give up a paycheck. My dad promised to pay me weekly for my help on the farm, which softened the blow, but it still felt like stepping into a life I hadn’t planned for.
No one at Cracker Barrel knew why I was leaving. Outside of our church small group, we kept the situation quiet.
We created a schedule:
If my parents had to leave together, I stayed home.
If I had class, one of them stayed behind.
At least one person was always on the farm.
My days shifted. I watched the driveway, scanned the tree line, and paid attention to anything out of place. I went to class, worked on the house, fed the alpacas, kept busy but hyper-aware. The alpacas were our biggest concern—we feared he might harm them just to hurt us.
The arrangement wasn’t sustainable and we knew it—but it was all we had until the post office fight trial. We didn’t think beyond that. Survival doesn’t leave much room for long-term planning.
It was a family decision. Not ideal, not simple, not how any of us wanted to live. But it was unanimous. And it was temporary, or at least we hoped it would be.
For the foreseeable future, this was our new normal.