The Wild East

There are many charms to living out here on the Edge of the Atlantic.

A week can't go by without fish or meat or a pot of stew or some baking being dropped off. And you try not to mention some lack or a problem in your life because it will be fixed, stat. And I'd be beholden, you know?

For instance, I whined about my old office chair a month or so ago, it was literally falling apart, I had replaced it with a $200+ new one a couple of years ago which crunched its own wheels out - much like an alligator chewing its own tail off - within 6 months of purchase. I had put the old beat up one in my shed, like you never know, and I was glad when I hauled it out again, though my sad arse was painful every time I rose up off its hard uneven seat and dicey uncertain back. Anyways, a friend picked up a spectacular government disposed beauty in St. John's for $20. I can assure you our politician's butts are well taken care of if they are getting rid of such fine pieces before their time. I'd say originally $400 or thereabouts of our precious tax dollars. Beautiful upholstery. That's what I mean. Newfoundland people are the best on the earth.

A well placed whine can work wonders out here on the Edge.

So here I am upstairs a few days ago folding laundry (one of my more peculiar habits, I fold every dang bit of laundry down to face cloths) when I hear gunshots. Many gunshots. Around my house.

I lurk behind my windows and spot four or five young people in camouflage across the road and down a bit firing into the hills behind my house.

I go out with my arms up. I'm more angry than afraid as Elder Dog has hidden herself, shaking, in a corner with her paws over her eyes.

"Hey, I say, stop it, stop it!"

I know, script fail.

"Wha', wha'?"

They turn as one to look at me.

"You're not supposed to be here," says the leader, shouldering his rifle.

"It's my house,"

"I know, I know that, but your car's not there!"

This all makes sense to Outeasters in a peculiar way, see here, and isn't the first time I've been challenged for not having my car in my very own driveway.

"You frightened the hell out of me!" I say with an edge.

"Oh we're real sorry, miss, real sorry, but it's the only place where we can target practise, we can't go into the woods or over the water or we'll be arrested!"

"But you can fire across a main road and shoot at private property?"

"The only place allowed, miss, sorry we'll pack up now, but where's your car?

"In the garage."

"Funny place to keep a car."

They're serious.