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Readers have emailed me and asked me where the town we live in got its name (Hidey Hole Hollow), and how we ended up here. I hope you're sitting down.
My family and I have only lived here for three years, but as I understand it, the town actually used to have a different name. I'm not sure what it was but back in the 1960s, the Department of Justice began relocating people in the witness protection program to this area and more specifically this town because this is such a rural, remote area of New York State that even federal and state officials aren't aware of it. Hillary Clinton was our state senator before she became Secretary of State and she didn't even know this area existed.
At any rate, 'the powers that be' at that time apparently had quite a sense of humor and decided that, since the DOJ was dumping 'hidden people' here, why not re-name the town, Hidey Hole Hollow?
For many years, because the DOJ had given them new identities, folks in this town had really strange names, (Not that they don't now, but now, for the most part, they're self-imposed nick names.) Idella Dale, Sonny Day, Wormy Corns, Mrs. Corns and the four little kernels and Bugsy and Mrs. Bobo. Most of the original transplants' have since been relocated or passed on. After all, in an area this size, you can't have too many 'ordinary people' living in one town without drawing attention to that town. To lift the fog of suspicion, the DOJ stopped relocating hidden people' here in the late 1970s.
Now, for the second part of the question: Why did my family and I move here from beautiful Virginia?
I'm sure you've heard all the usual explanations; too many people, too much traffic, sprawl and crawl, etc. Well now you're going to read the rest of the story.
The Frontiersman was working at what was originally the building for a major insurance company. After that company moved to a newly erected, larger building, a major credit card company moved into the old building. They fulfilled their five year lease and moved on to their own newly erected, larger building. The owner then decided to divide the building up and rent out square footage to individual businesses. Enter The Frontiersman.
He was hired to oversee the reconstruction of the building, hire the contractors to do the work, make sure the work was progressing on schedule, keep the property neat and clean and keep the tenants happy. It was a thankless job, but he has a lot of karma to burn off.
During the three years he worked there, he noticed a few strange happenings, but nothing that would do more than raise an eyebrow once in a while.
One Friday, about mid-afternoon, the building owner, Mr. Crumpler, showed up, stomping and storming, as usual. He only ever went there because Mrs. Crumpler wouldn't put up with his tirades at home, so he went on the war path there; after all, it was his building.
Mr. Crumpler walked around the outside of the building, hands driven to the bottom of his pants pockets, his jaw set, the look of 'here comes trouble' in his eyes. It was obvious he was pissed; he wasn't leaving until he found trouble.
He went inside. The Frontiersman had a bad feeling and made a conscious decision to make himself scarce. He saw Mr. Crumpler approach the drywall contractor, Moose Schmedlapp. He knew immediately that was going to be a volatile union.
The Frontiersman always thought there was something nefarious about Moose and he kept their conversations strictly professional.
Mr. Crumpler and Moose began to talk. Mr. Crumpler had some paperwork in his hand (probably bills and statements), and was shaking them in his fist, at Moose. He began bellowing at Moose. Moose was losing his temper and began shouting back at Mr. Crumpler.
Suddenly, the fists were flying. At first, Moose was trying to keep Mr. Crumpler at arms length, but then he lost it.
Mr. Crumpler was now on the defensive, trying to block the solid punches thrown by Moose. They were twisting their arms around each other, each one trying to get the better hold on the other.
Moose threw one final punch and Mr. Crumpler lost his footing and ended up in a heap on the floor. In a flash, Moose pulled out a gun from somewhere on his body and fired three shots into Mr. Crumpler.
The Frontiersman heard one last gasp of breath from the body stretched out on the floor. Moose looked around to make sure no one had witnessed the bloodshed.
Fortunately, The Frontiersman was undetected. He stayed hidden until he saw Moose speed away in his new, bright red pick up truck, tires screaming and smoking down the driveway.
The Frontiersman placed an anonymous call to 911 and then left before the police arrived.
He barely slept that night. Early the next morning, the doorbell rang. Our dogs started barking like they were going to eat whoever was on the other side of the door.
I got out of bed, put on my bathrobe and my Betty Boop slippers and scuffed my way downstairs, two little Min Pins at my feet. I peeked through the clear center glass of the cathedral glass door window.
"Who is it?" I queried.
"Special Agents Rogers and Murray from the FBI Organized Crime Task Force", a voice called back. "We need to speak to Mr. V."
"Hold on just a minute", I said. "I want to put my dogs in the backyard."
I let the 'babies' out and returned to the front door, unlocked it and they flashed their shiny badges for me to see. I invited them into the living room and excused myself to go wake The Frontiersman up.
To make a long story short, The Frontiersman testified against Moose and, during his trial, it was disclosed that Moose was one of the much-to-be-feared Northern Virginia underworld, so we were put into the witness protection program and forced to leave beautiful Virginia. We were all given new identities and relocated to Hidey Hole Hollow where we have one flashing traffic signal at our one intersection in our one horse town.
It's been loads of fun relocating from civilization to this secretive little piece of the world and I'm still getting a kick out of adjusting.
Anyone interested in buying a well built bridge over a robust river in The Sahara, please contact me.
***** ***** ***** ***** *****
Not one shred of evidence supports the theory that life is serious.
Shari Vaudo moved to Western New York State with her family from Virginia. She and her husband, whom she refers to as 'The Frontiersman', are both retired. Their son, 'The Computer Genius', is in college and lives at home. They also have a married daughter who lives with her husband in a nearby town.
Her interests are gardening, reading and writing. Her favorite things are her family and her pets.
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