Always did love a man in bibs. . . .

Appalachian courtship.

The day I called in my markers, and all available friends and family arrived to help finish digging the holes for the telephone poles and to put them in (I had all eight down 24 inches, I needed 30. . . . And that last six inches was the hardest hardpan you can imagine), that day, when I arrived with the poles, I was told that some strangers in a red truck had gone up the hill, but not come down (yet). Since I was the only owner ( I thought, lol!), I was annoyed, once again, by the propensity of strangers to drive down a country road, just to see what was at the end of it. I'd been coming upon them, or vice versa, that whole summer, and I didn't like it. When one wants to take a bath in one's own river, for instance, to look up and find a truckfull of strangers staring vacantly is more than a little irritating. So I just parked my car in the middle of the road. Whoever would have to ask me to move it in order to leave, and I could give them a piece of my mind. Sure enough, a little later, down comes the red truck. One big guy, kinda dumb looking. And one much smaller, and very pretty indeed; bearded fella. I admit my heart leaped. More than a little. Good thing the big dumb one was there, I couldn't understand a single word the good looking one was saying. The big guy translated. Turned out that good looker had just bought the lot at the top of the road. Gorgeous view, and I had a neighbor. Nice.

I was not planning on living on my place that winter (house building was taking a lot longer than I thought), but Michael did. He and his brother lived in an army surplus tent until they, along with his step father and step brother finished the first 12 X 16 foot quarter of the house. I'd drive up from my rented cabin on good days, and keep working on my place; mostly the shed. Most days Michael would show up. Most times alone, but sometimes with his brother. Since he didn't have a well, I offered him the use of my spring. He seemed grateful for the offer. And asked if I ate "wild meat"? What kind of wild meat? Well, deer, squirrel. I allowed as I'd eaten deer, but never squirrel. Did I care to try?

I thought well, I moved here. Why not try? So I got a lift up the hill, and came away with a deer ham, and four squirrels. Guessed I'd be getting a chance to find out if The Joy of Cooking really WAS the best all around cookbook in the world. . . . On my way back, I stopped off at the local antique store, to talk with Anne and John, who'd become great friends in the process of becoming my outfitter (more on that another time).

I was invited in for coffee and to meet their former preacher, a West Virginia boy. As I told them of my acquisition, and asked for advice on how to cook squirrel (just in case Joy of Cooking failed me), the nice preacherman broke in: Wait! Are these squirrels skinned, or unskinned? Well, skinned, I said. Oh. Well, then you know you're going to have to marry that boy, dontchu?

Well, he was right: I was being courted. And, in fact, I did came close to marrying that boy. Indeed. And squirrel in gravy is right good. Indeed.

It was Michael who first told me about the fairydiddles. And the secret name of my house is The Fairydiddle Mystery house.

(Nope. That isn't Michael. It's George Clooney, in O Brother Where Art Thou?)