March 2005 – May 2005
To recap, over the winter, we focused on work inside the house, and we actually got a lot accomplished. The place had felt cold and empty for months—just beams, studs, and bare sub-floor. It was the kind of environment where you were always stepping over a stray two-by-four, dodging a leaning sheet of drywall, or catching your foot on one of the many extension cords snaking across the floors. But we had fallen into a rhythm as a team: problem-solving together, teasing each other, talking about whatever we were interested in at the moment. It bonded us closer as a family and a cohesive unit renovation machine.
The kitchen was nearly finished—the refrigerator, oven, and cabinets were all installed—which meant we no longer had to eat out or walk to the fifth-wheel for meals. As soon as the last cabinet was set, the room seemed to come alive again. It was easy to forget that the kitchen used to be an extra bedroom, complete with a door that once led straight out to the back porch. Now it felt like the heart of the house.
My mom loved it. She was excited—truly excited—for the first time in a long while. Our first home-cooked meal in the new kitchen was chicken and rice casserole, one of our favorites. My parents and I sat at the makeshift dining area in the middle of our construction zone, but it felt like a small piece of normal returning after months of chaos.
We also dry-walled all the bedrooms and mudded and sanded most of the walls. The only thing left was the ceilings. By the end of winter, the inside of the house looked less like a project and more like the beginnings of a home.
When spring arrived, the work shifted outside. The cold days of huddling around space heaters and breathing in drywall dust gave way to milder weather and clearer skies. We built the floor for the side porch, hung vinyl siding, and my dad began planning a new alpaca barn. It felt like the coming months were finally going to be productive, the kind of stretch where you can almost see progress forming in front of you.
The Video Camera
Around that time, a friend recommended we buy a video camera. Its purpose wasn’t for family memories but protection—to document any antics from our neighbor or defend against false accusations, similar to how police wear bodycams.
At that point, Dale was a minor annoyance. His behavior came in waves—we could go a couple of weeks without an incident, and then suddenly deal with two or three days in a row of him causing problems. With spring coming and him outside more often, we figured having the camera close by might help if he decided to try something.
The camera itself was small and gray, making little dinging and whirring sounds whenever you opened or closed it. It was a DV camcorder that took tiny cartridges, state-of-the-art just before digital camcorders with hard drives arrived.
My parents eventually learned how to use it, but for the first week, the camera was mostly mine. One afternoon I came home from work and found them in unusually good spirits. It was relieving—seeing them laugh about anything involving Dale was rare.
They sat me down and told me about an incident earlier that day. They’d been driving down the right-of-way in the dark-blue Explorer with its gray interior. As they passed Dale’s garage, he stood on his back porch and flipped them off. My mom held the camera up so he could clearly see it through the driver’s side window. The moment Dale spotted it, he panicked, dropped his hand, and practically dove back inside his house to avoid being recorded.
My mom could barely get the story out without laughing.
“The funny thing is, Bobby,” she said, “the camera wasn’t even turned on. It didn’t have a tape in it!”
I had to laugh too. Maybe, we hoped, the very idea of the camera would make him think twice from now on. It wasn’t peace, but it was a thin layer of protection.
Shoveling Gravel
Not long after, the gas company dropped off a huge pile of gravel for the shared right-of-way. They didn’t want to get caught up in the ongoing dispute, so they simply dumped the load near Dale’s garage and left us to sort out the rest. There was more than enough for both properties.
The weather was sunny, partly cloudy—a mild spring afternoon. Dale smoothed some gravel into his driveway, and my dad and I used the tractor to grade the rest up toward the farm. Dale stood back taking pictures like we were doing something wrong, but to us, it was just another day of farm work.
My dad and I were our normal selves—focused. Working a tractor, shoveling wet gravel into ruts—it demanded attention. We didn’t have the time or patience to worry about what Dale was doing.
I filmed everything with the camcorder for documentation. The footage itself isn’t exciting. It’s just my dad or me on the tractor or shoveling gravel. But I still treasure those videos. They capture a small, ordinary moment of life on the farm—the roar of the tractor echoing down the valley, the crunch of gravel under boots, the quiet teamwork between father and son. There was nothing dramatic about it, but I could watch those tapes for hours.
The New Pond
That spring, my dad finally got to use a bulldozer the lumber company had promised him as part of their deal. When he fired it up, the sound echoed loudly through the valley, rattling the quiet of the place. He carved out a pond on the northwest side of the property, cutting into a dry area we’d walked across a thousand times.
I watched from a distance while he worked—serious and focused. He never played around with heavy machinery. Within a few days, the creek filled the basin. It was strange watching the water rise higher and higher, swallowing familiar ground. A small tree in the center slowly disappeared underwater.
I was sad to see that spot vanish beneath the pond, but the idea of inviting family up there one day—fishing poles in hand—was encouraging. Something new replacing something lost.
The ducks and geese refused to move from their pond near the Hilton, but we didn’t mind. There was room for more than one body of water.
Trespassing
Meanwhile, Dale had hired the same lumber company to timber his land, and the work left his property torn up with heavy equipment. The fence line separating our properties was destroyed—splintered posts, broken fencing, and huge tractor tracks carved through the mud. Only a thin line of remaining trees separated the two properties. The largest tree—still standing—had Dale’s old tree stand attached to it.
The place looked like it had been napalmed.
One day, while my parents stood near the tree line, Dale and his wife pulled their truck onto our side of the property and laid on the horn, staring them down. My parents were annoyed—tired of the games, tired of the intimidation, tired of preparing for court over the gun-brandishing incident while still dealing with his petty behavior.
My mom raised the video camera, and instantly they retreated back across the line. This wasn’t the first time he’d crossed over—he’d done it before on his four-wheeler, one of the reasons we’d had a peace-bond violation hearing. So this moment didn’t change how safe we felt. It was more of the same.
The Street Sign
One morning we drove down the right-of-way and found a newly planted street sign. It read Dora Lane—a shiny green sign with white lettering on a clean gray pole. The road had never been named before. My parents found the whole thing amusing. My dad joked that if the road had to be named, Alpaca Avenue would’ve been a lot more fitting.
When we contacted the U.S. Postal Service, they told us the name was assigned to help track rural deliveries. We asked whether naming it meant the right-of-way was considered a legitimate road, but the postal worker said they only cared about delivering to valid addresses. It wasn’t the answer we wanted, but it was still strange to see a sign marking a road that the neighbor swore wasn’t one.
We used a P.O. box anyway, so it didn’t change our mail. But having an actual road name would come in handy later when giving directions to police.
My mom even asked if we could have it renamed Slatts Are Awesome Drive. The postal worker laughed and said, “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
Settling Into Life
Spring settled into a pleasant routine—working on the house, caring for the alpacas, and going to work. My mom started making our favorite dishes again: chicken and rice, stuffed peppers, pot roast. We brought the dining room table from my old apartment and set it up, finally giving ourselves a place to gather for meals. Instead of going to Cracker Barrel five days a week, we were down to two or three.
Our church launched something called “small groups,” gatherings of eight to ten people who met for Bible study, meals, and fellowship. My parents loved it. Their group met on Thursday evenings and included people their age with shared life experiences. The fellowship gave them peace—a sense of grounding. God’s Word says not to worry, and having emotional support helped them stay steady during a season when it would’ve been easy to feel isolated on a farm in the middle of nowhere.
Those small groups eventually became a cornerstone of South Ridge Church and would go on to shape the way many American evangelical churches built community.
A Surprise Gift
One afternoon, my dad told me to hop in the truck. We drove to a used-car lot in Fairmont, and I asked what we were doing there.
He said, “Your vehicle is on its last leg. Let’s see if we can find you something reliable.”
My old car—a 1995 purple Ford Escort—had engine trouble and sometimes wouldn’t start in the winter, so I couldn’t argue. The lot was newer: a clean cement parking area, a modern building with big windows, and cars that smelled like fresh interiors and dealership polish.
The salesman turned out to be one of my dad’s high-school friends. While we went through the process of purchase, he shared wild stories about the two of them getting into fights back in the day—almost cartoonish, like something from a movie about the rowdy 1950s. My dad smiled through most of it, but his cheeks occasionally turned red from embarrassment, which made the stories even funnier to hear.
We drove home with a silver 2002 Ford Focus. I hugged my dad and thanked him. I felt gratitude, appreciation—more than I could express. When I had first moved to the farm, I didn’t feel appreciated. We’d had a huge argument a few months earlier, but since then we’d grown close again. The car was overwhelming. It made me feel loved in a way that settled deep and quiet in my chest.
My dad said, “You’ve been such a big help to me and your mom. It’s the least we could do.”
Later I told my mom about the stories the salesman shared. She smiled and said, “Yeah, your dad was a little rough around the edges when he was younger.” As a teenager, he’d gotten into more than a few fights. After high school, he hopped on his motorcycle, rode up to Lorain, and got a job at the Ford plant.
“I’m glad you straightened up and moved to Lorain,” I said.
My dad was standing near the dining room table when I said it. His voice softened, contemplative.
“Moving to Lorain probably saved my life,” he said quietly. “If I stayed here, I probably would have wound up in jail or dead.”