So, what was the breaking point for me in Springtown?
Was it the meth lab across the street? The tree that mysteriously caught fire? Was it the time lightning struck my neighbor's barn, sparking yet another fire, which burned about 5 acres of my property, while I wasn't home?
How about the time I woke up to gunshots, and saw a truck slowly creeping by the far end of my property, and the shadow of a man running towards my house? Or, was it finding out that the man had shot a deer on my property, right behind my house, from his truck on the road?
Was it all the tornado warnings, watches, and power outages? Was it the flooding? The take-over of the black widows and the snakes? The time I opened up a box in the garage to find a mama mouse's nest full of blind little babies? Was it finding out that my normal neighbor's dog had mysteriously disappeared? Was it all the time I spent out there alone, while my husband busted his ass building his own business?
It may have been all of those things. Or none of them. I cannot say that I regret any of those experiences, because they are part of me now; part of my history, and they have shaped me.
But I can say that one truly defining moment for me in Springtown, one short span of time that was drawn out in slow motion, really made me think, "Why the hell did I want to live in the country?"
One night my husband and I had just gone to bed when the usual event of headlights filled our bedroom. We heard the vehicle stop, and knew without looking that it had stopped in front of that damn cursed meth lab/trailer down the road. The brights flickered. Then, we heard the car's engine rev, and it started speeding down the road. As this was happening, we heard the undeniable sound of gunshots. And not from a deer rifle.
As the car sped past our house, we continued to hear gunshots. At some point, my husband jumped out of bed, and suggested that I 'get on the floor'. Seriously? Like I live in a rough neighborhood?
I jumped out of bed and hit the floor, my nose tickled by dust bunnies. My husband did not hit the floor, (because he's a man, where man=hard-headed, stubborn IDIOT), but looked out our window, and then grabbed his gun. (Yes, yes, we must be rednecks to live in the country, right? GUNS. My favorite thing in the house. Blech.)
Nothing came of it. We don't know who it was, we didn't find bullets or a crime scene or shell casings. We don't know who it was, or what exactly they were shooting at. But let me tell you, I was fired up. I had cows. I had a baby. I had two dogs (who slept through the whole damn scenario) and a crazy-ass husband. Who the hell did they think they were???
That, my dear reader(s), was my breaking point.