That have happened to me recently.
As we waited for the bus one of the final times this year, a red truck drove up to our remote cul de sac. And a man came out. He said he was our neighbor, and there was no reason not to believe him because our neighbors here are remote and generally as secluded as we are. He asked if he could walk onto our property to find his dog, who had a tracker but hadn't moved since the previous evening.
Well, of course.
Then he stepped out from behind the truck and the girls' eyes became as big as saucers at the gun holstered to his hip. "Oh, this. It's for snakes," he says.
And the bus arrived and it was suddenly safer to send them off in that thing than have them close at home. And the man wandered off into the forest. And I ran off, literally, on a morning run.
And when I returned, his truck was still there. So, I just snapped a picture of the license plate and sent it off to Patric, asking him to just keep that for today. And it may have been the first time here that I've actually turned the locks on the doors while I was home alone during the day. The children brought in the note above when they returned from school.
End of story.
Except I returned home from somewhere a couple of days later and there was another note attached to the mailbox--not a broken leg, it was a snakebite. As in he returned and placed an update on my mailbox. I'm still wondering why.
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