June 2005 – August 2005
June marked a month of major transformation on the farm. The weather helped—sunny days, surprisingly low humidity, and that early-summer clarity where the air feels clean. We spent those warm mornings tearing out the last remnants of the old property, the old bones of a farm that had lived many lives before ours. I lamented the history behind those structures—they were symbols of a time forgotten, like shanties from a western gold-rush town—but they were falling apart, rotting away. Letting them go felt necessary.
The first to go was the outhouse. Mom had wanted it gone for years. When Dad handed her the tractor keys, the grin that spread across her face was priceless. She hardly ever operated the tractor, but this time she laughed, triumphant, as she mowed the outhouse over. Once it lay on its side, we tore the musty boards apart and tossed them onto the burn pile. That night, the fire crackled and filled the air with the smoky, old-wood smell that seems to only come from burning something that’s existed for decades. The burn pile was always an evening ritual—our time to sit around the fire, talk about the day, and reflect. Burning the old buildings gave us a moment to reflect on their significance.
Next came the smokehouse. We had hoped to save it, but the entire base had rotted away. The wood was so dry Dad simply set it on fire and let it burn itself down. By day’s end, it was nothing but a black heap of cinders. Finally, we hauled off Sammy’s old doghouse. Maxwell and Sonny had newer, sturdier homes now, and Sammy’s had become just another relic from the past. Looking back, we should have torn down the old chicken coop and pig pen while we were at it, but both were stuffed full of storage and would have to wait for another day.
One morning, I woke to loud, insistent mooing—close enough that I knew something was off. When I looked out the spare bedroom window, the scene felt almost surreal: about twenty head of cattle grazing peacefully in our front yard near the barn. For a moment I was five years old again, remembering the cattle that once roamed the farm. I used to try to pet them, but they always ran away. Seeing them again stirred something nostalgic I didn’t expect.
Mom and Dad came out, amused by the whole thing. Dad called Mr. Hardaway, who acted like this was normal farm stuff—just neighbors looking out for each other. He rounded them up, and for a minute it felt like the past had wandered back through the hills to say hello.
Around that same time, our church moved again. We had outgrown the makeshift services at the YWCA—church in a garage, basically—and relocated to the Fairmont Senior Center. The attached chapel seated at least three hundred, double the size of the center itself. It had a high ceiling, light tan wood everywhere, carpeted floors, lattice, and fake plants on the stage. It felt more “evangelical,” if that’s even the right word. Mostly, it felt permanent. After years of hauling musical instruments and technical equipment from cars to borrowed spaces, having a closet to store everything felt like a luxury. I remember wondering if Israel felt something similar when they went from worshipping in a tabernacle to finally standing inside a temple.
Meanwhile, life on the farm kept moving. Except for one incident, we barely saw Dale that summer. We wondered if his lawyer had told him to stay quiet until the trial. Still, the undercurrent of tension remained. Dale got an attorney to represent him for the gun brandishing charges. Letters from this attorney arrived throughout the season, and every time we saw an envelope from the law office, we groaned. “What now?” we’d think. It was always the same accusations—rehashing grievances, claiming we told Dale to move his garage, insisting we stay off the right-of-way “or else.” It never felt like a genuine attempt at resolution. More like intimidation. The prosecutor recommended a new property attorney to represent us, we switched, and after that we largely ignored the letters. We had too much going on with the renovation, the alpacas, and the farm to dwell on Dale’s drama.
Then came news that truly weighed on the soul. John and Barb called asking if we could help search for a missing teenage girl near Salem. But by the time we arrived at their house, their faces told the whole story. They looked shaken—quiet, pale. The girl had been found dead, stuffed into a garbage bag on the front porch of her own home. Her father had murdered her to conceal the fact she was pregnant with his child. The police had been only feet away. I’d lived in cities with high crime, but I’d never heard anything like that. We spent the rest of the day in low conversation, barely speaking, occasionally drifting into talk about alpacas because it was the only thing that didn’t feel crushing.
July was quieter. For Independence Day, we went to Uncle Danny’s where cousin Mike put on a fireworks show that could rival a professional display. His only goal was to outdo the Manchins—a prominent family in the area. Joe Manchin would later become governor and then U.S. Senator, but Mike wanted it known his fireworks were bigger. He succeeded.
A few days later came the one major Dale incident of the summer. Dad was clearing brush near Dale’s property line while putting up “No Trespassing” signs for a neighbor, and I grabbed the video camera—just in case. It was a hot, muggy day, the kind that makes the air feel thick. As Dad worked, Dale called his brother over, and they both started shouting that they’d called the police. Every time I turned the camera toward them, Dale’s brother picked up rocks and threw them. They were maybe fifty meters away—some rocks hit the ground not far from me—but I didn’t care. If they were hoping to provoke us, get us to do something stupid, it wasn’t going to work.
What unsettled us most wasn’t the shouting or the rocks. It was Dale’s face. He stood behind the others, arms folded, smiling. His eyes were dark—almost black, flat, and soulless. It felt like he brought his family there just to antagonize us while he stood back and watched the show, and that smile sat with us long after we drove home.
But life went on. A batch of baby ducks hatched—rescued from a terrible mother we literally called “Bad Mother!” because she kept smothering her babies. We moved the babies to a better mother, and they filled the yard with high-pitched peeps, full of energy and excitement. In the middle of all that, I decided to try this new movie-by-mail service called Netflix. My first DVD was The NeverEnding Story, which felt oddly fitting for how our life seemed at the time.
August came, and with it my anxiety about Fairmont State. Classes were about to begin, and I still hadn’t received an acceptance letter or registered. Going to Fairmont felt like continuing the education I’d begun—not a grand reinvention, just the next step. When nothing arrived, I finally called admissions. They told me I’d been accepted and could schedule classes online. It felt good, but also frustrating. A call, an email—anything—would’ve been nice.
Around that time, I worked a closing shift at Cracker Barrel on a hot, quiet summer evening. There was a young couple at one of my tables: the guy wearing FUBU gear, a hat, and white long shorts, the girl with dark brown hair in a ponytail, tank top, blue short shorts. Both looked malnourished. When I approached, they were mid-kiss. When I returned with drinks, she was sitting on his lap. By the time I came back to deliver their food, she was straddling him, full-on making out—while a family of four with two kids stared in shock. The kids looked confused, unsure what they were witnessing.
I apologized to the family, who nervously laughed it off, then tapped the couple on the shoulder. I said, “We can all see that you love each other very much. But I’m going to have to ask you to refrain from making a baby in our dining room.” It was pointed, snarky, and exactly the line the situation called for. The girl jumped off his lap, and they ate quietly after that.
Later, after closing, my manager told me she’d had the strangest encounter at the register. The young man had gotten emotional and insisted, “We didn’t do anything wrong! We’re in love!!!” then wrapped his arms around the girl and stormed out. Once I filled my manager in, she was baffled—and then she laughed.
The whole summer felt like that—farm work, house renovations, strange encounters, moments of peace and moments of tension. Life kept throwing things at us, and we kept living it. Without thinking much about it, I was fully embracing farm life. Even though I was working constantly at Cracker Barrel, I was committed to helping renovate the farmhouse, taking care of animals, and doing chores alongside my parents. Dale existed in the background like distant thunder (was that what the sign meant?), something we kept half an eye on but refused to let control our days. It was never a dull moment, but it was our life, and we lived it as it came.