There’s a lot of potentially scary things about living alone in a log cabin in the woods out in the country.

Like, a LOT.

Maybe not like, “Australia” a lot, but more than, say, “San Jose, CA” a lot. But not “Oakland, CA”. Toss Oakland a couple of koalas and some vegemite and you basically have Australia.

Not EVERYTHING up a river and through the woods wants to kill you. But a few things do. The other things just like to prey on your anxieties and superstitions and make you BELIEVE they will kill you and do naughty things to your corpse so they can keep you in line. A line that i’m only just now beginning to understand.

It’s like…a code. A “country” code. A way of life that only exists out in the “woods” or on a river with country folk.

And i’m learning that code just as fast as i am breaking it.

For example:

There’s an unwritten understanding that if you’re ever in need of help, you can ask a neighbor. For just about anything. And you can be expected to possibly be asked for help in return at some time. In fact, it’s downright neighborly, if you see your neighbor hauling brush to the burn pile or replacing broken corral posts (i think they are called posts) it would be right nice of you to walk up and offer a helping hand. Now, this goes against my natural inclination to be “friendly”, but not exactly “helpful” because that would entail me going out of my cabin. To talk. And work. With pants on.

But i’m there for ya! If it doesn’t involve any heavy lifting or any tool more complicated than the screwdriver with the line (not the one with the “x”. i don’t know WHAT that’s for), and i certainly will offer help if i can.

Except when it comes to Kim.

The common understanding i have learned, is that Kim is a woman who can squish mountains and fart fire and you DO. NOT. MESS. WITH. KIM.

You don’t ask her for help. You don’t offer help. You don’t need help in her presence. You basically stand still and play statue when she’s within earshot and never ever EVER approach her. And that includes returning her very social and exuberant young Border Collie to her after an unexpected visit because HE IS JUST FINE THANK YOU AND COMES HOME WHEN HE IS READY.

i started getting the picture after that incident, but still noticed that talk about “Kim” was always done in hushed tones with a lot of significant looks and eyebrow raising. i have never been one to get subtleties and so i interpreted all that hush-hush eyebrow bouncing in the only way it could possibly mean to me.

Kim is a serial killer.

After that, i did the only thing a good neighbor who happens to be me does when told to stay away from someone:

i stalked her.

Basically, i kept an eye out for anytime she was outside and watched what she did. (Through my windows. Sitting on my couch with a comfy blanket. And mermaid tights). i often saw her driving some four-wheeled piece of machinery full of tools up and down the road so one day when i happened to have pants on, i ran up the driveway and just stepped out in front of her, waiving and grinning in a way that i hope said “Howdy! i’m your friendly neighbor!!” and not “Howdy! i’m your friendly neighbor! Please don’t kill me!”

She braked quickly and came to a stop inches from me and stared without getting off her four-wheeled…thingie.

“Hi!” i exclaimed. “i’m your new neighbor! i live in the log cabin just up this road?”

Nothing.

“my name’s candice! i’m the one who brought your dog back?”

Nope. Wrong. Her eyes narrowed.

“Your name’s Kim…right?” i noticed my voice is now sounding not nearly as confident as it was and i sound less like Pollyanna greeting the mailman and more like the dumb girl in high heels who always dies first in the thriller movies. “i’ve been wanting to meet you.” i’m not so sure anymore.

She takes a long moment to look me up and down (hey! i’m wearing pants!) and then slowly and deliberately, steps off her four-wheel..thingie…and stretches out a hand.

“Nice to meet you”, she says and her sinewy, tan, leather-like paw takes mine in a vice grip that makes me wince. She shakes hands like a man.

i then proceed to babble..which i always do when i’m nervous…but Kim interrupts and cuts straight to the point –

“You keeping this place up?” She looks at me doubtfully, like a 5-nothing foot tall chick in short pants, rubber shoes and scratched Prada sunglasses who’s built like the offspring between a bowling ball and a marshmallow can’t possibly keep up a freaking ACRE OF GRASS WITHOUT A SPRINKLER SYSTEM OR SOMEONE WHO KNOWS WHAT THEY ARE DOING MOWING ALL THAT GREEN STUFF.

i think i’m doing pretty good. i look around and suddenly i see the property through her eyes. i see overgrown, dark trees where once i saw magnificent shady spots to sit and listen to the birds. i see clover as an invasive enemy, taking over my mini golf course green grass instead of the yummy buffet for honeybees i always thought it was. The rhododendrons were large and menacing. The clover/grass was encroaching on the gravel driveway. The cobwebs from spiders i had made “arrangements” with now seemed an indicator of laziness and uncleanliness rather than a helpful addition to keep the bitey bug population down. i looked down and saw that Annie had pooped near the end of the driveway.

Was i keeping this place up? i thought i was…but now i started to doubt…

“It IS a lot of work…and there’s a few things i need to do still…you know…some trimming… and stuff”, i stammer, looking around at my once beautiful cabin and now seeing it as an impossible challenge that i ultimately, and predictably, failed.

“It IS pretty bush-y. But i suppose Dorothy had a hard time keeping up on it,” she states as she re-saddles her four-wheel..thingie.

And then three things hit me.

A. Ice Queen just used “bush-y” as if it were a real word.

B. i just moved in a couple months ago so all this “bush-y-ness” didn’t happen all under my watch.

C. ‘Dorothy’ was an 80 year old firecracker who lived here for decades and worked her retired, skinny, bee-hind off all day every day to keep this place immaculately tended and cared for. WITH hired help!  And she STILL couldn’t keep it from getting a little “bush-y”.

And i bought this place with all its bushiness and i LOVE it. The more things grow, the more soft shady places i have to sit and meditate. The more clover, the more honeybees who live to make honey and not war. And i LIKE my grassy gravel drive! It feels softer, more welcoming. And Annie’s poop? Well, i really should go get the shovel and dispose of that. My sweet girl’s digestive system is definitely efficient these days.

i turned back to Queen Kim to let her know i actually love the place just how it is and wouldn’t it be nice if we could all be friends and what is that dang four-wheel thingie actually called? But she was already starting the motor, officially ending the conversation.

i waved to her back as she drove off and then turned and looked down my soft grassy driveway, past the expanse of blooming clover, hard working honeybees and old, majestic trees, to the cobwebby cabin i fell in love with the instant i saw it.

i smiled and i sighed and walked back up the driveway to home.

The poop can wait.