Border Talk (5)
Ron missed the call from a Border Patrol agent while we were in town last week. We didn’t think much of it at the time, but when we came home the next day to find tire tracks leading up to our gate, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. We live at the end of a mile-long dead end dirt road. People generally don’t just drop by unless they are lost. I thought back to the call from the Border Patrol agent and wondered if there had been illegals crossing our property while we were gone. With much to do, I shook off the notion as I hauled in groceries, cleaned out the cat litter box, and fed the animals. At some point I realized Ron hadn’t helped carry in bags from the truck. I put the groceries away and threw in a load of laundry all the while wondering where he was. Soon my imagination got the best of me, and I worried he’d run into someone out in the shop or the airplane hangar. After I peeled potatoes for dinner, I grabbed the pistol I keep in our bedroom and went looking for him.
This was an odd predicament to find myself in. I have no doubt I would shoot someone who tried to hurt my husband, animals, or me. I’ve had my life threatened and know what I am capable of. But it’s a part of life down here I would rather not have to deal with-this underlying fear that I might look up from my garden or walk around the corner of an outbuilding to find someone standing there prepared to do me harm. After walking the property, which seemed an eternity, Ron appeared carrying a long stick. He’d been out looking for rattlesnakes that may have come in close while we were gone. He looked down at the pistol at my side. “You’ve been gone forty-five minutes,” I said. “I got worried.”
The next day two agents stopped by to inform us there had been activity at the ranch while we were gone. The men joined us for coffee and banana bread, then asked if they could take a look around. The illegals they had caught the day before had dropped bundles of dope somewhere nearby. Ron and a friend went to harvest honey while the agents combed the property on their ATVs. I went out to water trees, and by the time I came in, the agents had left and I was home alone. A twinge of vulnerability set in while I did chores, but I consciously dismissed it so that I could get on with my day. There was too much to do. I couldn’t just lock myself inside the house and pull the curtains.
Despite illegals on the border or criminals in our cities, most of us are resilient and are able to carry on with our lives. Trouble seems to happen when we give in to our fears. That’s when we begin to lock our doors, avoid eye contact with our neighbors, and withdraw from the people who care about us. I heard today that the FBI is setting up a billboard campaign in hopes people will come forward about the shooter’s motives in the Las Vegas mass killing spree. I’ve been asking myself if knowing Stephen Paddock’s motives is really all that important. The damage is done, isn’t it time to move on? To heal? But at the core of our humanity we need the question answered. If he was just a regular guy who opened fire, then what prevents any of us from doing the same? Until he is culled from the proverbial herd, we won’t rest. In the meantime, it’s important to our well-being to leave the curtains open to let in the sunshine.
