September 2005 – November 2005
The end of August was hectic. Classes at Fairmont State started in a week, and I still had to enroll. Campus was buzzing with students buying books, carrying stacks of papers, and trying to figure out where their classes were located. Parking was impossible. I spent hours poring over the Fairmont State catalog, trying to make sense of what transferred, what counted, and what I still needed to finish my degree in Political Science. I finally settled on a minor in Public Administration. For my English requirement, I chose World Literature. For the minor, Public Administration. And for an elective, I signed up for U.S. Presidents and Religion—a class about the religious life of every American president.
Being a Political Science major four years after 9/11 felt different than it once had. The country had changed, and so had academia. I was intrigued by the new directions my field was taking, but unsure whether a career in Washington, D.C. was what I wanted. I’d worked in politics before, and DC always felt high-stress and high-stakes. Political Science gave me more range—I could go anywhere with it.
After 9/11, one of the major blind spots the Bush Administration identified was that our intelligence agencies and university programs were still stuck in Cold War thinking. We weren’t prepared for newer threats or different kinds of intelligence gathering. So colleges started building programs that reflected the post-9/11 world. That’s how I discovered the degree in Research Intelligence and Analysis. It was only nine credits more than Political Science. One of the courses I could take for that degree was called Terrorism. It also counted as a Political Science elective, so I enrolled. With that, my fall schedule was set. Classes started the next week.
September began ominously. Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans, the levees broke, and the city filled with water. We watched from our living room TV in disbelief. It felt like a disaster movie, except it was real. Overwhelming. Footage of helicopters plucking people from rooftops. Reporters arguing about who failed where. And the image that stuck with everyone—President Bush looking out the window of Air Force One at the drowned city below.
Katrina made us thankful we lived in an area where natural disasters were rare. Our situation with Dale, stressful as it was, felt small compared to the devastation happening in New Orleans. Still, everyone we knew—from church, from work, from the community—came together to collect supplies and send help. People often say Americans are selfish, but when somebody is hurting, this country knows how to rally.
Around this time, my brother Chris came to visit—which was perfect timing because we had finally begun building the alpaca barn we’d been planning for months. We’d chosen the location, the style, and the dimensions. The barn was huge—about a hundred feet long—and the smell of fresh lumber hit you the moment you walked near it. By the time Chris arrived, Dad and I had the main framework up. Now we needed walls and a roof.
Chris is almost three years younger than me and has always been a gifted athlete. In high school, he went to state in long jump and played running back on a football team that nearly made the state championship. As an adult he lived in Boise, Idaho, and trained every few months at the Olympic Training Center in San Diego hoping to qualify for the Olympics. He’s incredible when it comes to athletics—but manual labor was never his world.
The fact that he came for two weeks to help build the barn meant a great deal to my dad. Dad was grateful not just for the extra set of hands but because Chris was stepping completely out of his comfort zone. You could see that gratitude every time Dad looked at him.
Meanwhile, I was juggling classes and part-time work. I kept up with my responsibilities, but I wasn’t helping on the barn as much as I felt I should. One afternoon I stepped outside and watched Dad and Chris working together. They were laughing, talking, carrying boards, figuring things out—bonding in a way they rarely got to. I realized Chris was finally getting to experience what I had all year: time working alongside Dad.
So I turned around and quietly went back inside.
Later that evening, Dad walked into my room.
“Why didn’t you come back out to help me and Chris with the barn?” he asked.
“Dad, you and I work together all the time,” I said. “I thought I’d let you and Chris spend some time together. You have me here every day. Chris is only here for two weeks.”
He smiled, reached over, ruffled my hair, and walked out without saying another word. That little gesture told me everything.
Not long after, Sonny got loose one afternoon and attacked one of the ducks. I heard my mom yelling for him to stop and the duck squawking in panic. Dad managed to grab Sonny while Mom picked up the duck. Thankfully, the duck was shaken but unharmed. But we knew then that Sonny couldn’t stay. We loved him, but if he could hurt the animals, he needed a safer environment.
We found him a home quickly. A family with two young boys and plenty of land came to meet him. Sonny ran to them instantly. I hugged him goodbye, feeling that mix of sadness and relief. He was always clumsy and always getting in your way, but with those boys he was gentle and protective—like he’d been waiting for them.
A couple of weeks later, I walked into the room to find Mom laughing over a letter. She handed me the photos: Sonny mid-air on a trampoline with the two boys, his tongue and ears flapping wildly. We were relieved and happy. After several tries, he finally found his perfect home. I guess the fourth time really was the charm.
Chris and Dad managed to finish most of the exterior of the barn before Chris had to head back to Boise. Dad and I would tackle the inside pens after he left. But there wasn’t much time to miss him, because a few days later we drove to Wytheville to pick up Aunt Theresa and Matthew and bring them to the farm for a visit.
Matthew was five years old—a typical five-year-old boy full of energy and curiosity. He loved the alpacas and couldn’t get enough of running around the farm. Aunt Theresa used these visits to unwind. My grandparents could be stressful, and slowing down on the farm helped her breathe again.
We surprised Matthew with a new member of the farm: a Siamese fighting fish named 5 Days. The name had a story behind it. Matthew had a fighting fish at home that he loved, so Mom thought we should have one for him at the farm too. The problem was that every time she bought one, it died after five days. She tried again and again—always five days. Finally, she bought one from Walmart, joking that this one would be “Five Days” like all the others. Except this one lived—and kept living. Auburn and purple, just a chill little fish. Matthew was excited to see him, but honestly, I was more excited than he was.
We took Matthew on the four-wheeler, driving slow enough not to scare him, but just fast enough that he laughed and screamed with delight. We went out to eat at the Chinese buffet in Bridgeport, played with the alpacas, and didn’t work on a single project. It felt like a small vacation for all of us.
One evening, some friends from Cracker Barrel invited me to karaoke night at a place called Mom’s—a restaurant near the interstate infamous for its indigestible food. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hang out at such a less-than-reputable establishment, but my friends insisted that was part of the charm.
Mom’s smelled like grease and hash browns. The place looked like it had been around forever. Inside, the lights were dim with blue and purple bulbs glowing around the DJ booth. Except for my friends and me, everyone else was elderly. The first man we saw was singing a country song while hooked up to an oxygen tank, the steady hiss of the oxygen perfectly keeping time with the beat. I felt like I’d walked into the movie Cocoon.
We ordered drinks—no food—and stayed longer than we expected. Watching elderly folks have fun singing karaoke was oddly heartwarming. Driving home afterward, I kept thinking, No one is ever going to believe this story.
The weather stayed unusually warm. The trees still had leaves, and most hadn’t even begun to change color. Life felt full but not stressful. Having family around, going to church events, hanging out with friends—it brought a peace we hadn’t felt in a long time.
This was the first time we felt like we were actually living on the farm rather than just surviving it.
We still felt that familiar dread driving down the right-of-way, but once we passed through and saw the house—or once we headed into town—that feeling faded. In many ways, this was the most comfortable we’d been since before the blackberry incident. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was settling into something livable—steady—maybe even hopeful.