The Spring Sheila R. Lamb (bio) That squirrel sat right in the middle of the chicken's feed pan, stuffing his fat cheeks full of corn crumble. Ice and snow pelted down, and then hens were underfoot, eager for their evening meal. Though those birds would peck a mouse to death or quarter a toad—a foursome group effort, each hen heading in its own cardinal direction—they shied away from the squirrels. Used to be I'd let [End Page 80] my hound out with the chickens. She'd corner a squirrel quick, catch it by the neck, and shake it until the life was gone. I didn't have a dog anymore—I figured it might outlive me if I got one now—so I made for the manure shovel. I raised it, took aim, and smashed the squirrel, right on the skull. Left it in the pan. Let the hens gather round. Weather as it was didn't bode well for the squirrels or for anyone who might be driving on the mountain. When you get winter up here, it works something like this: snow and rain stick to the road and then turns into an icy sort of slush. What people don't get when they come up here to hike the trail is the altitude. They don't understand the concept of high-up. They think "country" not "mountain," until they spin out in their underprepared SUV and get caught in the ditch that runs alongside our road. Later, after the storm, Bobby tugs them out in the tow, because ice, altitude, and steep incline don't mix, at least not here on the line between South and Mountain. The ditch is a waterway, and the spring that fills it begins in my backyard. It's the water for which our entire county is named because somewhere east the spring turns into a river, into a bay, into an ocean, but here it is my backyard spring and its run-off is the reason for precarious driving on our mountain road. Way back, Eric wanted to make the spring a tourist site. Charge them a dollar or two to come and see, but the county supervisors ruled no. Said it would be too much traffic or somesuch, even though it takes some doing to find our road and the section of trail it intersects. Eric wanted to bring the tourists up anyhow. "You can't get people up here without a sign to it," I argued. "And as soon as you set out that sign, Bobby'll come on up and take it down." In addition to driving the tow truck, Bobby was also a county supervisor. No stopping him making money [End Page 81] on the side but it was the rest of us that had to kowtow to his rules. "Bobby can't stop us from doing what we want on our own property, Sarah." What you want to do, I thought loudly. But I only said, "I think he just did." "It's our spring. One of a kind. Marked from here to the ocean." I rolled my eyes and shut my mouth. Eric had been a geologist who also fancied himself some sort of expert in tourism and natural springs. Jacob I could talk to, but not Eric. No point in it. After a quarter century of marriage, I knew that Eric would push to do what he wanted but I wasn't going to give in on the spring. I wasn't going to let him give Bobby Winetree a reason to set foot on our property. Bobby didn't like us none since we bought the cabin twenty some-odd years ago. I had settled in and taught school local while Eric kept one foot in the outside world. Traveled in and out of airports for his geologist work or his mistress meetings, I supposed. I got me a henhouse, a dog, a truck, and then started the egg business which seemed to please most everyone at the time, including Bobby. Enough people done left our mountain, left the county for city work. Bobby learned to be glad for...