It's hard living in the nation with Morlocks for neighbors. Everyone attempts to mention to me what I ought to do on my own property. 

At the present time I have two pundits who are continually at me—Jim Crow, a full-blooded Cherokee from the Five Nations Reservation who goes through his day as a jack of all trades being chased after by a wild crow and Stella McKinley from a close by ranch who's excellent yet confused. 

Between these two nit-pickers I'm attempting to seek after my entitlement to life, freedom and bliss in my own specific manner, however it's hard, brace yourself for what I'm about to tell you. 

I'm going to plunk down to supper when I get intruded, as I do day by day, by my nosey neighbor, Stella McKinley. I snatch a chicken leg and snack on it while I get the telephone. 

"I need to investigate that fence you and Jim set up today," she says. 

"How'd you catch wind of that?" 

"We live in the nation—everyone knows everyone's business." 

I figure Jim Crow returned to the booking and imparted up smoke signs. 

I moan resignedly. "When would you like to take a gander at it?" 

"Like at the present time—Duh! It's very nearly five and it gets dim quick in December, particularly when it's snowing." 

"It's snowing?" I pretty much stifle on my chicken. 

"No doubt. Didn't Jim caution you?" 

"I'll be over in my truck to get you." 

"I trust you have snow tires." 

I feign exacerbation. I have a Ford F-150 with all season tires—they have a snowflake on the sidewall. I'm not going to disclose that to a lady. 

After twenty minutes, I'm at Stella's farmhouse and it's descending like a snowstorm. I signal the horn and sit tight for her to come out. 

She's thirty, a year more youthful than me, and lives alone on a ranch her folks left her. 

She's wonderful, college instructed and an all out genuine annoyance. I may have even considered inquiring as to whether she were half-ways common. I believe she's one of those women's activists or something. 

She at long last turns out in pants, boots and a logger coat. I can never make sense of how she can look shocking dressed that way, however she oversees. She gets in and shakes the snow from her long, light hair. 

"Better keep to the principle streets." 

"I wasn't expecting to go from point A to point B." 

I put that in as a mean method for reminding her I know who's been imparting her smoke signs. 

"Better believe it, not an extraordinary day for going romping without snow tires," she jokes back. 

I drive the long path round to my back twenty and park close to my woodlot. 

"We'll need to climb in from here," I advise her. 

She shrugs and jumps out into two feet of water. 

"Damn! Why'd ya park so near the dump?" 

"Did you need me to stop in the street?" 

She gazes at me as though looks could execute—and trust me, for her situation, they could. 


https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2017/08/10/07/54/clouds-2619731_1280.jpg[Image source](https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2017/08/10/07/54/clouds-2619731_1280.jpg)


She has these delicate earthy colored eyes that go dark as coal when she gets frantic—and directly about now, those eyes are about as dark as Frosty the Snowman's. 

It will be one of those battles and likely another forlorn night.