Dear World: I Am Going to Be Murdered in This Garage
Adventures in buying a big, old, weird house as a woman by myself, CONTINUED.
Iām Ash, and Iām a writer, traveler, nonconformist & nomad, and every week Iām sharing funny field notes from around the world. Currently, Iām in America writing about what itās been like to return home to my small town, twenty years after living abroad.
Last night I heard sounds coming from the garage in this new farmhouse I bought in the country and I had to remind myself that I am a strong woman and itās fucking fine and itās probably just a woodchuck or raccoon or mass murderer (or something) so I turned on every single exterior flood light I have and pounded on the garage door and then had a mild heart attack and went to sleep with a buck knife next to my bed. š
Now itās morning. The sun is shining. So I go outside with my green muck boots on (theyāre olive) and I bring my coffee onto the porch and itās all sunny and and sweet and everything looks totally safe and innocent and Iām all OOOOOH, FRESH AIRRRRRR and suddenly I like this place again, which is saying something because there have been many days where Iām like WHAT HAVE I DONE. And then I remember that what I have done is called living, and thereās something to be said about diving in, tits first, when it comes to big, scary things, and isnāt it funny that most people are scared to go to Nicaragua or Colombia or Mexico or Chile or all of the places I traipsed through for years with a tube of red lipstick and total, blissful naiveteāand yet for me, the idea of purchasing this regular old wooden house on a regular five-acre plot of land surrounded by hemlocks and woodpeckers and deer is just SO RADICAL???
Anyway, so Iām sitting out here in my morning bliss and suddenly I hear it again: the sound.
The same sound from last night.
Like someone is rummaging around in the garage.
It sounds like they are throwing nails, hammers, drill bits, cans of soda against the wall. (Because apparently I have a garage. And in the garage there are tools. And now I am supposed to, uh, use them?)
The adrenaline pumps. I stand up like a Viking warrior, despite the fact that Iām a human terrier dog, tongue out, armed with a popsicle stick and pair of fluffy slippers. Itās cute that I actually start to walk menacingly toward the garage like Iām actually going to confront this person / goblin / Ted Bundy who has no respect for my peace of mind / cortisol levels / fact that I am really just a nice girl who wants to wallpaper some walls in a print I will regret.
Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god.
I keep walking toward the garage like Iām Hans Fucking Solo. I pause, briefly, remembering that THERE ARE BEARS. Yes, hi, there are black bears everywhere here where Iāve purchased these five acres of landāyet another exciting perk.
I tiptoe my way closer, fully aware that I am the idiot in the horror movie when weāre all shouting āheās behind the curtain! RUN!ā and yet they just walk right toward the door where the killerās hiding in a pair of olive green muck boots.
THWACK!
Oh, this sadistic bitch. Not even trying to hide. Not even trying to conceal their criminal activity! Just brazenly over there rifiling through my things. What are they looking for, a Huffy bike from 1996? A jumbo-sized pack of moth balls? A long-lost set of rubies and jewels? (I loaned them to the royal family decades ago.)
I think about calling my new neighbor, a blonde chick in her 30s who probably weighs 100 pounds and could be a contestant on Miss Americaābut ALSO runs a horse farm like a military sergeant and is certified to butcher pigs, cows, chickens and some other red-blooded mammal that I canāt remember. Next to her, I am an incompetent scab. Though, I love being an incompetent scab. It means there is still so much in the world for me to learn.
THWACK!
Why are you not in London right now, eating a scone? Why arenāt you driving around Scotland right now, drinking a whisky? (Maybe not at the same time.) Why are you not doing the kinds of things you know how to do, like wear blazers that make you seem like you actually know how the game of polo is played, or sit in the wrong seat on a train?
I hear it again.
Louder.
LOUDER STILL.
And then, I see something out of the corner of my eye. Itās being hurled at my head. Itās coming toward me, fast.
It drops at my feet.
THWACK!
Then another.
THWACK!
I look up, in total disbelief, at what I see next.
Itās not a bearāthis, I can confirm. Itās not a racoon or any of the other members of Noahās Ark. And, itās not a mass murderer either, to our mutual disappointment.
I bend down and pick up the object.
It is hard. It is big. It is mighty. Itās covered in something sticky. [looks around innocently]
I recognize this.
Itās been years since Iāve touched one. [Oh god, somebody help.]
Years since Iāve thought about these.
THWACK!
And just like that, I start to laughā¦at first, quietly. And then, uncontrollably. The kind where youāre twelve years old again.
The pine cones fall like hail, as if they are bricks.
Another one smashes down on the metal roof.
I take a deep breath.
Most scary things are just pinecones, in the end.
P.S. Not to belabor this whole pinecone thing, but did you know there are female pine cones, and male pine cones?! I DID NOT KNOW THIS. I did some very risquĆ© Googlingāa little recon on my new perpetratorāand unearthed an article titled, āThe Secret Lives of Pine Cones.ā And oh boy, let me tell you what: do they have a secret life! The female pine cones are the ones weāre familiar with, with their spiky scales and their cute little button butt. The males, on the other hand, look a little bit like a nibbled off ear of corn. Nobody sees those clingy fuckers. They stay up in the tree, hanginā out, shooting off their pollen for all the world to gather. The females, on the other hand, open their scales and hope some of it lands on themāsort of like being covered in catcherās mitts. (Iām glad I only have one v???) The female pine cone closes her scales when itās cold, to protect the seeds, and opens them when itās warm again. Over time, pollinated seeds will ripen and fall to the groundāand, folks, THIS IS HOW A NEW PINE TREE IS PRODUCED. After two or three years, however, the mother will dieāand then she will fall to the ground.
So, apparently, I have a bunch of dead mothers falling on my roof.
And, thatās enough to scare anybody.
Oh God I am so glad you're back Ash!!! You have no idea how much I missed your writing and stories... pine cones - who knew?
"Most scary things are just pinecones, in the end." This truth is what made me hit subscribe so I could comment:) Also, it's a truth I am FINALLY learning at my ripe old age, which is riper than the avocados I bought 2 weeks ago and didn't use this time either. Thnings are scary; they are pinecones; then they aren't scary anymore! Love!