I own a weapon.
To be specific, it’s a small handgun, but before ya’ll go judging me for owning a weapon, let me tell you what has happened to me in the past six years living in BFE.
Before we moved out to BFE, we had neighbors so close to our house, we could easily hear them eating dinner in their dining room while we were grilling on our deck. We lived in a “cookie cutter house” in a “cookie cutter development.”
We hated it.
So, when we saw the chance to move, before the housing market crashed, we took it and ran. We sold our house within six months, to some clueless people wanting to escape an even worse community than we were trying to leave. The community from where we came from wasn’t bad, I just knew I didn’t want to live there forever.
We found our house on a popular “country road.” I no longer heard our neighbors devouring their meals. But, I can see a house to my right, left and across the street.
However, I don’t associate with my neighbors on a daily, weekly, monthly or yearly basis – unless it’s to call the local sheriff department when a horse escapes its pasture – and yes, that has happened at least four times.
Therefore, the way I see it, if anything were to happen on my 2.6 acres of land, no one would be running to my rescue.
We are surrounded by farm land behind our house and across the street.
But where we live isn’t the reason behind the weapon – it’s more related to the number of odd people who have rung our doorbell; knocked on our door; or driven onto our property.
There are 365 days in a year. Of those, my husband works from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday, and sometimes he works over. That means five days a week, I am the only adult in this house during “normal-working business hours.”
And let me tell you, if you thought living in the city was scary, you ain’t heard nothing yet folks.
Shortly after moving here, a man pulled up into our driveway, knocked on the garage door, asking me if I had any GOLF BALLS to sell him. Apparently the man who lived here before us used to scour golf courses for used golf balls and he would wash them and resell them for profit. I looked at this man as if he was from another planet and told him through a screen, “No, I don’t have any golf balls.”
A woman knocked on our garage door (you’d think by this time I would have learned to close the garage), announcing she was “here.” I looked at her as if she was an alien as well, and told her I had no idea who she was or why she was “here.” She left with a look of utter confusion, much like the one my own face showed.
Oh, this is the worst!
After having the twins, one fall day, I pulled into my garage (left the door open), when a vehicle pulled in directly behind mine (allowing no room for escape) and a young girl stepped out of her car, begging me to “smell her hand soap.” This brought out my inner bitch (all of us moms have this gene). In my oh-you-have-got-to-be-freaking-kidding-me tone, I told her to leave immediately. She tried to get me to smell it again and almost tossed her ass off my property. The only thing stopping me was the fact she had two men in the car with her, trying to “sell the soap.” I immediately called 911 and gave the description of them and the vehicle they were driving. Since that time, I have been told how some people try to get women to “smell the soap” and then kidnap them. After I called 911, I also called my other “country friends” and told them to not answer their door.
The meat selling man in a truck.
Yes, this man knocked on my front door, I did not open the screen, but spoke to him via the closed door. “No, I do not want any meat.”
I also called 911 and gave them a description of that man and his “meat packing” truck.
Our wacky neighbor despises us for calling the local sheriff on him and his horses. He also hates the fact my dad planted pine trees on our property line. If this man ever knocks on our door, I will run with the kids and hide in my bedroom, with my weapon close by.
Example F & G:
You would be surprised at the number of people who randomly stop in our driveway. We have had a car simply “die” (lucky for this woman, I interviewed her for a story and she was 90 years old); we have had an older gentleman run over a bush down the road, preventing his car from moving any further down our road than our driveway; and recently, a car ran out of gas. For all of these “incidents,” my husband has been home.
But for the other times, I have been here with either my oldest or all three of my children. Since we live in the country, it can take a sheriff deputy almost 5 minutes to reach our house, unless he is patrolling another area close by and reach us sooner. A lot can happen in 5 minutes – we have all heard what happened in 5 minutes in the community of Sandy Hook, Conn.
I have no problem calling 911, and I trust them, but when it comes down to protecting my children, I will stop at nothing to make sure they are safe. It’s my job as their mom to protect them. The gun is in a safe, locked away from our children. But knowing it’s there provides me with peace of mind, and in the world we live in today, I need that reminder.
I own a weapon.