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This Land is MY Land!

Written by Ed Lamaze

Thursday, 14 August 2008

I grew up in a relatively small town. Oh, it's downright metropolitan compared to the blip on the map where I live now, but as towns go it was relatively small. As I grew, so did the town and the last remaining parcels of farmland slowly became surrounded by schools, shopping malls and neighborhoods. Our house abutted one such parcel of land. An old farmhouse on a rectangular plot of roughly 3 acres. The field had long since been used for crops and for the most part stood unattended and uncut. The old farmer and his wife still lived in the farmhouse and he kept a mule, God only knows why, in the back yard.

Occasionally we would venture out into the field and build little forts and play war games, always cautious for there was tale that the crusty old farmer kept a shotgun loaded with rock salt and he would shoot any hoodlum kid that dared venture onto his land. We feared that old man. No one ever saw him, but we knew he was there and could almost feel his watchful eye as we crossed the fence. We knew we weren't supposed to be going into his fields but somehow couldn't resist. The thrill of adventure was just too great. And besides, we were never destructive (except for that one time that my brother set the field on fire). That, he says, was purely an accident and the fire department was unable to pin anything on him.

As a kid, I never quite got it. I could not understand how a person could be so protective of a crappy, overgrown field. Why couldn't he just let us kids play there? I mean, aside from that one small fire, and again the fire department could not pin anything on us, we were harmless. OK. So there was that time we used his trusty mule as target practice with our new bb guns, but we used each other, too. It really wasn't any worse than a bite from a horsefly. Maybe a wasp. Certainly not a bumble bee. Man, that mule would stand motionless for hours and in an instant, one little sting of a bb and he would start hee-hawing and kicking like like his hoofs were on fire. But I repeat, the fire department did not charge us with anything in that little mishap. And the mule was never in any real danger of being burned. A little smoke inhalation, maybe. He certainly was not near enough to the flames to feel their warmth.

Flash forward some thirty odd years and I think I may just understand. I am now officially a land owner. Not much, just over four acres but it's serene almost park-like and a portion of the property fronts the Scioto River. That portion is actually separated from the main part of our yard as a county road cuts through that tiny portion and follows the river to the north. The area used to be fenced but it was removed by the highway department during recent improvements to the bridge spanning the river.

I've never had a problem with the local kids who may ride their bikes over to the little plot to fish under the bridge or just throw rocks into the river--you know, kid stuff. They were harmless and certainly not destructive. Until recently, I felt that the property actually looked nice without the imposing fence. That all changed a couple of weeks back.

One of the local bars in our little village hosts a carp tournament every year. Yes, you read that correctly. Carp. Each year for the past seven or eight years people flock to our little village by the tens in hopes of landing the biggest goldfish and claiming the fifty dollars in prize money. What can you expect from a fishing tournament dreamed up in a bar after what surely must ave been one hell of a bender? I can see it now....

"Dude, what we need is a tournament. What about pool or darts. Maybe horseshoes."

"What? That crap is for... well, it's crap."

"That's it! Not crap. Carp! We'll have a carp fishing tournament! We'll be rich!"

"Carp? You mean like the goldfish?"

I can not for the life of me imagine any other scenario for organizing a tournament whose main objective is to try and catch a goldfish. But every year they gear up for the big day and every year they come to fish for the elusive crap--erm carp.

The twist this year being that the fence clearly signifying that my property was off limits was now gone. I woke Thursday morning to find that some over zealous angler had chosen my land as the perfect site for his fishing locale and set up camp. A tent, some small chairs and enclosed the entire thing with that orange plastic barrier fencing and wooden stakes. Unsure as to how to proceed (I was a bit flabbergasted) I did what my mom would have done--I left a note.

When I checked later that afternoon to find the note gone but the tent and fencing still present, I did the next logical thing. I loaded up the shotgun with rock salt and waited. I'm kidding. I torched the campsite. I'm kidding. Really.

I called the local sheriff. To my great shock the sheriff responded to my call with the question, "so what do you want me to do about it?" Before I could answer him myself he provided the answer. "I suppose I can take it down and just report it all as found property." Great! Problem solved.

I spent the better part of the next morning posting signs--Private Property. No Trespassing. No Hunting. No Fishing. No Camping. Thinking that would be the end of that.

I suppose I should never underestimate the allure of the great speckled goldfish for the very next night our Darwinian angler had returned with a shiny new tent. I waited until just after midnight--when he was good and drunk and had passed out in the bed of his truck (not his shiny new tent, go figure) to confront Sir Dar. I read each sign to him enunciating each syllable and taking my time to make sure he understood. Our humbled little guy actually told me that he thought the guys in town were just playing a trick on him trying to get the jump on the good spots for the tournament the next morning.

Moron!

Again, I called the local sheriff who this time was more than happy to assist our village idiot in removing his campsite. As I left, smiling inside at the sense of power that property ownership affords I overheard the guy mumbling something to the sheriff--"Man, this kind of sucks. I already paid my two dollars entry fee."

It's a freaking goldfish for Christ's sake! Go to Petsmart.