Living alone is something I hadn’t experienced until April 9, 2020. Never, in 64 years, had I lived by myself, personably responsible for every aspect of life. When VST died, there were those that asked me if I was afraid to stay alone. Maybe they had reason to ask. Peering through the widows fog that surrounded me, I faithfully answered, “No”.
Faith in personal safety exists most strongly when it hasn’t been breached. Personally never robbed or physically threatened, locked doors have always been respected. Forgotten belongings left out in plain sight have remained untouched. Strangers have turned into friends without harboring hidden agendas of torture or murder. I’ve been very lucky. In Virginia City, such lucked continued, while VST protected us with his watchful eye.
Lulled into a sense of security, we lived in the chaotic world of tourists. Coming to see the sights they’d drive up the mountain to get a taste of Grandma’s World Famous Fudge. Blasted by steam, they rode the Virginia and Truckee Railroad, Queen of the Short Line. Feeling the zephyr winds blow, they’d touch a piece of history in a way like never before. With all of those senses heightened at 6200 ft., there was little energy left for robbery or mayhem. Things left outside remained there for days, weeks, or even months, never disturbed.
Some neighbors, when we’d first arrived, didn’t even lock their doors. An owner of a 1875 Victorian would often find tourists coming up her steps, thinking her house was a museum, and she the caretaker. She finally realized the lock on the front door was there for a reason.
A tourist once asked what time the gates closed. It would have been great if there were gates to shut. When did the town close? Only on the worst of white-out blizzards that shook Dun Movin, rattling her 33 windows. While snowing sideways, winds would blow drifts off our driveway depositing them down the hill. Awakening every sense, we remained alert and prepared as storms rolled through.
In late summer of 2019, with Wyoming still in our hearts, we’d just returned home. Laundry by the washer and the rig still packed, we turned in early. Snuggling into the comfort of our own bed, we’d just nodded off to sleep when VST sat upright. A noise. He’d heard a noise. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. From the absolute quiet of a VC night, we both heard footsteps on the lower deck. Just one person, quietly moving to the outside stairs leading up the hill to the back of the house.
VST grabbed his sidearm. A Smith and Wesson 1911 that I found difficult to even lift. Heading to the kitchen, he went to investigate. The house was dark and still, while the glow of a flashlight was visible as light bounced off the fencing through the kitchen blinds. VST watched as the light traveled up the stairs next to the kitchen wall. The glow betrayed the advance of the intruder creeping towards the back of the house.
By this time, I was cowering behind VST, both quiet as mice, waiting for an exchange of gunfire that might occur when the unwanted someone burst through our back door. Through the blinds, we could see the light outside the living room window, and then, directly in front of our back door.
Not being able to quiet myself any longer, in my most bad-ass voice, I yelled, “Identify yourself. We know you are there. Who is it?”
VST yelled, as well, “We’re armed. We know you’re there. Who are you?”
“County Sheriff. Identify yourselves and open this door. Drop your weapon and put your hands up.”
Was it a bluff? Was it REALLY a sheriff? We hadn’t seen a patrol car.
Holstering his gun, VST approached first, keeping his foot as a wedge against the door. Relieved to see the uniform, we allowed the officer to enter.
Wyoming had occupied our hearts and minds for two weeks. The neighbors knew we were gone. When seeing lights in the house, they feared a break-in and called for backup. In Virginia City, the sheriff still comes, armed and ready to deal. We didn’t know whether to buy the neighbor breakfast, or go wake them from a dead sleep to rant a bit. Thanking the officer for coming out into the night to make sure Dun Movin was safe, we locked our door. Cuddling together on the autumn night, we were grateful for watchful neighbors and very brave deputies.
These days, my life alone is different. Officers are too busy to come for a well-being check. New neighbors have blinds that are drawn tight. Oliver, now three years old and a real dog, sleeps through the night, never even giving the hint of a growl. With all locks secure, I ask the angels to watch over us through the night. Protected by faith, peacefully I rest.
A medical alert device sits by my bed. A small bedside safe holds a lethal defense weapon. Sleeping soundly, I’m not alone. Ever. Loved ones gone before watch over me, comforting me as dreams come. Sentries of angels, joined by a couple English Mastiffs for good measure, keep Winterpast from harm.
A sense of peace is a fragile thing for which we should all be grateful.
***********A special Thank You to our First Responders. You are unsung heroes that run in when others run away. Your bravery and courage are so appreciated.