On the distant horizon, he spied an unfamiliar vehicle, one of those sleek new models. It was difficult to discern whether it was a Prius or a Tesla, but it was definitely not a common sight around these areas. The car sped along the lengthy dirt road that wound through the cornfields, heading in the direction of his home. This was an unusual occurrence that immediately grabbed his attention. It was late afternoon, and just like any other day, he sat on his front porch rocking chair in his denim overalls, savoring a bottle of beer while gazing at the sunset. By his side, laid Rusty, his enormous Great Pyrenees, the sole living companion in the house, not counting the chickens and a couple of pigs in the barn.
The two young men in the car, who appeared to be college-age, were so high that they completely disregarded their surroundings. As they sped down the dusty road, leaving a substantial plume of dust in their wake, they carelessly knocked over the old wooden mailbox and collided twice with the dilapidated wooden fence. They paid no heed to the three conspicuous signs that emphatically declared, “Private Property – No Trespassing.” Their vehicle skidded, swerved, and came to an abrupt halt just inches away from his pickup truck, causing a stir among the chickens and the nearby perching birds.
It was an unusual sight, but nothing that would alert him. As the two young guys were overcoming their shock, he calmly placed his beer bottle down, ran his hands through his long white beard, and adjusted his hat. The car’s doors swung open, and they stumbled out, in a wired state of shock and amazement. Without moving to many muscles, he reached over his shoulder for his old American Winchester double barrel shotgun and rested it over his knees. “Well Rusty, looks like we’ve got some unexpected company “, he noted to his faithful dog, without taking his eyes of the trespassers.
Regaining their composure, the two individuals spotted him perched in front of the house, a couple of steps above and slightly away from their location. With no prior planning or synchronization, they simultaneously launched into incoherent conversation a testament to how wasted they were. To him, the content of their speech held little importance. However, if someone were to interpret their jumbled words, it might sound something like, “Excuse me, sir, we appear to be lost. Could you tell us the way to the nearest gas station?” To which he subtly raised his shotgun and uttered, with a soft yet firm tone, “Get off my property”.
Slightly startled, yet not entirely with it yet, the two young men gathering their poster looked at each other, and with some hesitation turn to the man on the porch and tried again. “Sir, we are on our way home from college, cross country, we apologize for any inconvenience, can you please point us eastward. To which this time, he raised his shotgun to a 60 degrees angel cocking it in an aggressive manner. This time the message was clear, and the two-guy turned around, rushed into the car, and took off the way the came.
Without a flitch the elderly man gently laid his shotgun against the wall behind him. He affectionately patted his loyal dog on the head, ran his weathered hands through his long white beard, adjusted his hat, picked up his bottle of beer, leaned back, and resumed gazing at the sunset from where he had reclined.
The last time any vehicle raced along this path told a different tale altogether. It was an aged Chevrolet classic pickup truck, with the man’s son and daughter-in-law seated in the front and three lively grandchildren bouncing around in the back cargo bed. However, the old man was conspicuously absent from the porch; he lay lifeless in the center of the living room, his faithful old dog, Rusty, by his side.
The following day, he found his final resting place atop the hill on the edge of his farmland, beside his cherished wife. Nearby lay two dozen, inconspicuous mounds of earth, holding the secrets of individuals unknown and unfound by anyone.
