CONVERSATIONS WITH SASQUATCH, THE BEGINNING—
Book Ground Zero of the Conversations with Sasquatch series
by Michigan author Richard Rensberry
The last house on the left is where the pigeons roost, huddled in a perfect row atop the grey-green roof peak next to the iron lightning rods that point to the heavens like weary crosses. There are still intact panes of glass in some of the dark windows, but mostly the interior is naked to the wind that makes a wheeze and a sigh as it climbs the creaking stairs into the attic.
The old homestead is mine, now. Handed down with a substantial tax lien and a weathered “No Trespassing” sign tacked to the front door.
I had surmised I would probably want nothing to do with the old place when I received notice from the court. I had planned my trip to Comins in order to do whatever was necessary to help the county auction it off in order to satisfy the delinquent tax revenue needs. That was my intention before I arrived on a blustery, sunny day in September.
The two lone sugar maples shading the front yard weed patch are ablaze in a patina of glorious reds, oranges and golds. The leaves are picked up by the wind and twirl in the air like a migrating swarm of butterflies. I am immediately struck by the forlorn beauty of the weather beaten house sitting serenely in its quaint setting beside a small creek, the golden rod and Black-eyed Susans, the cobbled path that leads poetically to the stick railing and columned front porch that is now beginning to sag beneath the weight of time. The red brick chimney on the north side facing is listing outward toward a gnarled orchard of apple and pear, in what looks like a desperate attempt to flee the gray, mottled skin of alligatored paint.
Any sane person would turn around and run. But, I am not always the sane one, you would soon find that out if you were to ask the remaining members of my family. I have never been one to toe the conventional line of thinking or believe that I had to follow the dictates of self-inaugurated authorities. I have often rejected the status quo in order to forge a life of my own making. I am now beginning to understand the process of how and why Uncle Cecil came to the conclusion of leaving to me, and me alone, 931 Reber Road.
The rest of my siblings can simply wish their wipe their hands of the place without even a sideways glance, though there are a couple of my brothers that I am sure are bitching about their lost claim to the land, 295 acres all told.
Cecil must have known that I would see beauty where no one else in the family would appreciate it. And then there is my penchant for conversing with Sasquatch, Gnomes and even the dearly departed. These entities have always existed in abundance here. Maybe Uncle Cecil saw turning the house over to me as a opportunity to hang around and haunt the place, or even sit down on the front porch with a bootle of Schnapps and me, for a seance on the merits of growing hemp instead of corn. Whatever the reason, here I am, enamored with what I am sure is considered by the community, an eyesore.