So I Set Him On Fire

We had a great night at home; everybody was here. Travis is done with school and he came by to watch The Office (he and Shannon watch it "together" via Skype every Thursday - tonight it's the real deal). I made chicken-fried steak and gravy and we gorged ourselves.

The best part of the night might have been the local entertainment. While at the grocery store, I picked up a copy of our local weekly, the Powhatan Today. A third-page story caught my eye and I read it to the family after dinner.

We laughed, so hard. I feel compelled to share the story with you, my loyal blog readers. Rather than try to reconstruct the story, I'm just going to write it for you, as written in the paper. No matter how inspired the retelling, I could not do justice to this story.

And so, here it is, with minor edits. HT to Michael Copley, the staff writer.

Frustrated that a party guest wouldn't leave his property, a Powhatan man burned the visitor's leg while the victim slept. 

Steven Y. Bowles told a deputy at the scene that he couldn't wake the victim, "So I set him on fire. What was I supposed to do? He wouldn't leave."

The victim, Robert L. Cashion, was asleep in Bowles' backyard after reportedly consuming alcohol on the property...Police were called to the scene on a report of shots fired.

Deputy Haislip found Bowles, who he said was visibly intoxicated, standing near the victim with a handgun.

According to Haislip's testimony, Bowles said he first cut the victim with a knife to try to wake him up. When that failed, he fired two shots into the ground near where the victim lay. Eventually, Bowles told the deputy, he "kicked the fire on him," though the deputy said he couldn't find evidence of a fire in the backyard.

...As of April 31, the victim was still hospitalized...

Only in Powhatan. Setting someone on fire is a reasonable option when you want them to leave your house.

Yes. I live here.

Feels Like Home

Syd takes voice lessons in the city. Every time I drive her into the quaint neighborhood that curves around the James River, my heart quickens. The old frame houses huddle like unique old relatives at a reunion, snug in the shadow of the glass and metal buildings shining just across the river. It appeals to me.

I was born in a small town in western Pennsylvania. Until I started first grade, we lived "in town". It was considered a great escape to get out to the country, living on five acres next to my aunt, uncle and grandparents in the new house my parents' built. It was a good life out there, but something was formed in me during those first few years that has never left. Memories of living in Franklin - in town - are stitched on my heart.

Narrow city streets and sidewalks, houses built at the turn of the century or earlier. A massive courthouse and city parks, a library within walking distance. Quintessential small town life.

I've always felt like a small town girl.

These days, I'm out in a rural county about 30 miles from Richmond. It's a large county, too spread out to offer much of that small town, walk-about feel. We have the county seat - and the County Seat Restaurant - and you can walk to the Y or the library from there. But there's precious little housing available in the courthouse area, and most of us live spread out all over the place. It doesn't feel like a small town.

A few weeks ago Tony and I had lunch at Karen's City Diner in Richmond. As we navigated the neighborhood, I said, "You know, if anything ever happens to you, I'm moving to the city..." He smiled and nodded. I've said that before. I'm committed to raising my kids where they are - the public schools are excellent and this is home for them. Tony loves the rural lifestyle.

But I go into the city and drive through neighborhoods with houses rich in character, neighborhood grocers and diners, linear blocks and corner bus stops and something in me just quickens. Every time I go to town, my heart stirs. I can imagine a life in the city; walking to the market every day, the feeling of everything close at hand, the energy of so much of life in such close proximity. What intrigues me is what's going on behind all those closed doors, in the hearts and heads of the people walking up and down the street, in between the boys and girls in love, holding hands as they stroll past the front porches. So much life, it seems.

Tonight was no different. I dropped Syd off and then just drove around for a while, discovering where the streets wound, how the weirdly angled intersection resolved, what the local Oriental market looked like. I watched the people moving around as I cruised with the flow of traffic. I pictured myself there, in one of the houses that was for sale, perched on a stoop with a cup of coffee.

It leaves this odd taste of nostalgia in my head. I know it's tied to my earliest memories, to black and white photos of me posed on a sprawling front porch of a three-story mansion on Elk Street. I know it's something as closely tied to imagination and wonder as it is to real estate and quality of life in 2010. I know there's a little "grass is always greener" yearning in me. I don't quite trust it, but there's this feeling that my life would be somehow more authentic if I lived in the city, if I got back to being "in town".

Tonight, though, something occurred on the drive home. It surprised me. As we headed west, we navigated the six-laned Midlothian Turnpike through the city limits and into Chesterfield County. Strip malls, development, small businesses, fast food; out of the charm of the city and into the sad, bruised facade of old urban sprawl. Stop lights and shopping malls. Ugly.

We reached the western side of Chesterfield, the place where the development just seemed to stop and the clutter tapered off. The car crested a small rise in the road and I saw open spaces, green trees, blue skies.

Involuntarily, I sighed. And a word came to my mind spontaneously, unbidden.

Home. I was headed home. It was there, out there in those wide open spaces.

I was ready for it, anticipating it. I just didn't realize it.

In the grocery store tonight, I ran into five different people that I know in the community. There were hugs, or smiles, or small waves. Conversations. Questions about the kids. I never go anywhere here that I don't see someone I know - not just a vague recognition, but someone I know well enough to stop and say "hi". I've lived here for just shy of six years now - longer than I have lived ANYWHERE in my adult life.

It's home.

Uninterrupted Space

Over a foot of snow. The "Blizzard of 09".

The rest of the world - away from the mid-Atlantic states - goes on as usual. Christmas shopping, concerts, shows, church services. But here in Virginia, DC and north and south of here, we are stuck. Time has slowed, stood still almost. Except for our connection to the world through the internet and television, we are still and isolated.

And it is a blessing beyond belief.

I cannot recall the last time I had this much uninterrupted space. From the kids, who had already intended to spend the weekend with their dad; from the phone. From work. From stress in general. No temptation to go out, because I cannot.

Focused time on that which has been begging for attention for weeks. Months, even. I folded six baskets of clothes that I am ashamed to admit had sat in my bedroom for longer than I can remember. We'd been rifling through the baskets for socks, jeans, shirts, underwear. Now the baskets are empty and the clothes are folded, put away in my room and waiting for the kids to do the same when they get home. The kitchen is clean. The pile of papers - excuse me, the three piles of papers and books - that had occupied my bedroom floor are now filed and put away. I vacuumed. I dusted.

I wrapped gifts, excited about some of the surprises under the tree.

My favorite elf showed up with some of Bob Pino's chili, still warm. Delicious.

I invited the elf in, and we ate Raisinets and watched The Proposal. Sweet movie. We both cried at the end.

The gentle quiet of the day brought a peace that I've not experienced in a long time. Too long. I have been given a gift. The timing is impeccable.

Tomorrow, we will not have church. I am disappointed. I feel out of sorts. It's odd to have a Saturday night that isn't brimming with anticipation for the next morning's worship experience. But in the midst of the disappointment in the altering of our usual plans, I'm a little excited. I wonder what the morning might bring.

I expect to find that I'll worship in some new and different way. I intend to do so, in fact. Not sure what it will involve yet, but first and foremost, I will thank God for the gift of time - a long, luxurious, uninterrupted span of over 36 hours.

What a gift.