Welcome to the neighborhood (AKA 'Get the f- out')

I grew up in a fairly suburban area, I guess. Close to the highway, about 10 minutes tops from downtown Fort Worth. I went to a high school that had almost 700 in my graduating class.
So when I moved to good ol' Springtown (about 35 miles northwest of Fort Worth), it was a bit of a culture shock for me. Not that I didn't know what I was getting into, but...

I didn't know what I was getting into.

So, let me set this up for you a bit-- I bought a house built in 1976, that was apparently left in 1976: gold foil wallpaper, carpet in the kitchen, yellow linoleum, wood paneling in the living room...you get my drift. This house was in the middle of just under 25 acres of pasture. Two ponds, a handful of pecan trees, 2 pear trees, snakes, black widows, 456812 stickers per square inch of yard (also called burrs-just read about it here if you don't know what I'm talking about). My dogs were not fond of the stickers AT ALL. I would spend a fair amount of time each day, pulling these damn things out of their paws, and even between the pads of their paws. I actually have a few scars on my feet from stupid stickers getting broken off in my feet. Lovely.

But I digress. Back to the visual.

My property was a rectangle shape, with one long side being along a damn county road, and the other being along a large ranch. The two short sides: One side belonged to a nice lady and her family. Very country, but nice. They constantly had their dogs roaming the area (didn't know what a leash was, I guess). Before Daisy was fixed, she was constantly going over to their house to 'do laundry' with their bloodhound who looked eerily like a damn beagle.

I digress again.

The other short side: An old couple, who had an adult son who lived with them. Never could really figure them out.

Probably our 2nd day there, I'm ironing (and NOooooooo, I was not wearing a paisley apron, nor was my hair in sponge curlers, nor was I wearing elastic-waisted polyester pants..because LIKE I SAID, I did not grow up in the country). Come to think of it, I have no idea why I was ironing when I really should have been unpacking, but...
you guessed it-I digress.

So I open the door, and this big, thick, burly guy in overalls is hovering.

Me: "oh. hi."

Burly guy: "I live next door, and I need to tell you that if your dogs go near my chickens, I WILL KILL THEM ON THE SPOT. I've done it before, and I'll do it again. "

Me: "oh. hi."

At which point, my husband walks up behind me, introduces himself, and Burly guy proceeds to tell him the same thing, but gives a bit more info: There are some problems with wild dogs around here, and coyotes, and he has had to kill several 'packs' of dogs who go after his chickens. My husband assures him that our dogs will not go near his property, and they don't even like chickens (only goats and rat poison, but that's another story for another day), and they are mostly inside dogs anyway. Also, my husband politely mentioned that our dogs wear collars, and if Burly guy ever seems them wandering, 'don't hesitate to call us and we will come get them'.

Burly guy says he will shoot them if they come on his property.


Welcome to the f-ing neighborhood, huh? And then the next day, he brings over a dozen fresh eggs from his oh-so-precious chickens. WTF?

THAT is how my time in Springtown started. THAT should have been the first day I started counting my days until I moved out of Springtown.


Kristie said...

It's a good thing you gotta outta that place. Otherwide you might have a few teeth missing and not own a pair of shoes!

Mamahut said...

Hope your dogs don't bring you some chicken home for dinner! My St. Bernard, Clyde didn't make it through our first winter out here in BFE. The rancher down below us shot him for chasing cows...Sad day. Are you still living in Springtown?

Heather said...

I grew up in the city, but my aunt owned a farm a few hours away where I spent a lot of my time as a child, and they were way more fashionable than us. They wore jeans from the GAP (that they drove two hours to buy), and I was the one who wore elastic waisted polyester pants (that my grandma made for me no less). And my mother was a lunch lady and she wore aprons and put her hair up in a bun every day. =D

Free eggs are awesome. I hope you ate them.

Anonymous said...

Ah...small town America. Doncha just love the hospitality? LOL

Anonymous said...


I am the city kid to my country cousins. I'll have to write a blog about the ways they tortured us as kids. Thanks for the idea!

La Petite Chic said...

Oh. My. Lord. Seeing as how my dog is my only child (for now), I probably would have flipped out on Mr. Burly Macho Man. What a welcome wagon he was!
And oh my gosh, mamahut's poor St. Bernard!

Anonymous said...

-Kristie: Yeah, that would have been bad! But 3 years there did have it's affect on me.

-Mamahut: I am so sorry about Clyde! My dogs hung out with our cattle too (don't worry, i'll be blogging about that soon enough), and the damn cattle could hold their own. But I have seen dogs be pretty aggressive with calves, so I guess I could understand the rancer's point of view. But! Clyde. :( So sad!

-Heather: Hey, nothing against aprons-my grandma was a lunch lady too! And polyester pants-who prego lady hasn't broken down in a weak moment and worn those? :) Yes, I ate the eggs. MMMmmm! Even let my dogs have a few, to give them a taste, if you get my drift.

-Alntv: Yeah, LOVE the hospitality!

-Raven: You're welcome!

-La Petite Chic: Yeah, the welcome wagon got better over the years, let me tell you. He was only the beginning!

Misty said...

Oh my. Welcome to the neighborhood, indeed.

Anonymous said...

ugh. the classic gun toting neighbor. We had some when I was little and lived in the country.