copyright 2015 Chris Smith All rights reserved.
When we arrived at the gates to the Farm we were met by two cars single file in front of the gate to Parcel B. One car had a "Locksmith" sign on either side of front doors.
Mom was upset. I didn't have to see her face to know. She wasn't Red Zone though, not yet anyway. I didn't want to deal with the situation. But it sure didn't look like Mom was going to do anything productive. She'd sit in the car for forever and a day to pretend they weren't here to take another piece of her Earth.
So, I gathered my wits about me, got out of the car and walked towards the group of men.
"Nathan?" I asked the group of gentlemen.
"Yes," replied one of gentlemen.
Nathan, the real estate agent for Parcel B, the Main House and Glass House stepped forward. He was a man in his late thirties wearing jeans and a button down shirt. It must have been casual Friday at his office.
"Hi, I'm Chris, the daughter," I said.
"Oh, hi. We're just waiting for the Sheriff's Deputy to arrive. He must be running late."
"Well, do you want me to open the gate for you," I asked.
"Sure. Okay. Thanks."
I walked over to the large wooden redwood gate that stood at the beginning of our Farm and opened it up for them to drive through.
When we got down to the Glass House and Main House compound, I got out of the car again. Mom was in no rush to face reality. She stayed in the car. I walked into my Parent's temporary house, the Glass House.
"Hey Dad, they're here," I yelled down the long hallway.
"Okay," he yelled back.
Dad came outside and greeted everyone. He was his usual very friendly self.
The six of us stood around waiting.
Weren't we just a merry band of fun?
The Deputy was the last to arrive. It turned out to be the same guy that was there for the Lock-Out Day on Parcel A, the A-Frame, a few weeks ago.
The Deputy related to all of us, while he was getting his paperwork together, a story of arriving at one Eviction for the official Lock-Out and the owner's of the property were on the phone with the Bank. Somehow they were able to make a last minute deal with the Bank. The Deputy, who was standing around, got a call from his command center, canceling the Lock-Out. So he left the property without changing the locks, and the owner's stayed in the home.
It was another story that was very few and far between. Most people had no such miracle. Today there would be no last minute call and no last minute deal for us.
Now all the players were here, the Lock-Out could begin. The Deputy started with the Glass House. He started down his task list.
"Is there anyone in the [Glass] House?"
"No," Dad said.
The Deputy walked through the entire Glass House, checking all the closets, bathrooms, and the loft, where I had once lived. When he was satisfied that no one else was in the house, he came back out for the official posting on the front door of the house.
Interesting though, the Deputy only had two Eviction Notices to post, not three, which was strange. Parcel B had three houses on the property. They had one posting for the Glass House, aka my Parent's temporary house, and one for the Cabin, my house. But for some reason the Bank had forgotten the paperwork for the third house, the Main House. The Main House had become our storage facility. We'd filled it with most of the stuff we'd brought over from the A-Frame and Garage.
Where would we live now?
No clue. We had hoped to have funding by now, but that obviously wasn't happening on our timeframe. Big shocker.
The locksmith, an older gentleman, Burt, originally from England who had had a brother in the British SAS, which is the U.S. Military's equivalent of a U.S. Army Special Forces (aka Green Beret). He was a really nice guy. Burt told Nathan not to change the locks.
"I have to change the locks. It's my job," Nathan said emphatically.
But Burt didn't understand what the big deal was. If Nathan didn't change the locks, then we can have access to our stuff in the houses and move it out a lot faster.
But Nathan was adamant, "It's my job to protect the Bank's property. So the locks have to be changed."
When Burt was finished with the Glass House, he asked my Dad quietly, "Do you want a key?"
But Dad said no. He didn't want to get Burt or Nathan or anyone else into trouble with the Bank.
Then Nathan and Alan walked with me up to my house, the Cabin. As we walked, Nathan asked me a lot of questions about the Farm and Parcel A. I didn't want to talk about the Farm. I didn't want to think about the reason behind all the questions. I no longer had a taste for being badgered by people about the Farm.
Did I know how many visitors had looked at Parcel A over the last week?
Did I know where the boundary lines were?
Did I know if the property was mostly forest?
It was odd to me, to think that I'm about to get Evicted from my home, and here's this realtor, asking me all these questions, trying to get information out of me.
As if I'm on the planet to help everyone else?
I guess he didn't consider that it might not be the most appropriate time to ask me questions that reflected the reality of us losing another piece of the Farm. But it wasn't my job to answer all his questions. I wasn't the one getting paid by the Bank to get the property ready. I answered as many as I cared to, as many as I could stomach.
"We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival."
Sir Winston Churchill
British Statesman, Prime Minister, Historian, Writer, Artist
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