The Art of the Feud
In these belligerent pas de deux the challenge is finding the right government agency to get back at the guy across the road. By Bill Vaughn

[from the beginning] When the Johnsons ignored the zoning laws and began building an illegal second shack on their property, we complained. Construction was halted. They appealed, won a variance, and were soon building yet another shitbox. This time we convinced the county attorney to file suit, and the Johnsons squandered beaucoup legal fees losing in court.

Good times.

Their response to our meddling was a trap-and-skeet club in their back pasture. The fusillade of shotgun blasts terrorized our horses and dogs and rattled the dishes. When we called the sheriff he said nothing could be done. After I strode forth and screamed at the Johnsons in language that would shock a longshoreman, they obtained a temporary restraining order, alleging that among numerous acts of trespass I had tampered with the wiring of their new house while they were away. To counter these fabrications I mailed the justice of the peace who signed the order the district judge’s ruling against the Johnsons, in order to establish their motive.

When it came time for the hearing the justice was not amused. He ordered the combatants to cross-examine one another. Kitty looked at me and smiled. I was thrilled. We were both thinking about My Cousin Vinny. Mrs. Johnson went first, and asked me whether I had called her certain names. I said yes. Then, despite the many other points in her complaint, she rested her case.

My turn. After I addressed each allegation she admitted that my outburst was the only one based in fact. She looked stunned, like one of those deviants filmed on NBC’s To Catch A Predator.

The justice scolded me. But when he turned his scorn on the Johnsons regarding the district court case it seemed that he was this close to charging them with perjury.  Instead, he threw out their complaint and advised us to quit fighting.

As if.

Then we received a letter from the state. A downstream neighbor, the onerous Mr. Jones, had claimed that we were stealing irrigation water from a stream whose water rights are owned by a dozen of us freeholders. In fact, when we bought the place we were aware that one of the culverts draining a stock pond along this waterway had collapsed. But because the earthwork damming the pond was porous, the water was percolating downstream anyway. The state elected not to order the culvert replaced. Our response to Jones was to inform the state that he had pulled down fences so his cattle could graze on the state land bordering his fiefdom. The herd was soon back in Jones’ overgrazed pastures.

The “Code of the West” is a guide issued by some Western counties telling urban newcomers what to expect. Don’t ask much in the way of government services, it says. Animals are dangerous, manure stinks, the weather can be harsh, you may not own the mineral rights under your hobby ranch, and so on. What it doesn’t warn about are people like me.

A couple years ago the biggest landowner in our backwater announced that he was going to dig a gravel pit on his ranch, and build an asphalt plant and a cement factory. Kitty and I looked at each other: Over our dead bodies. Our neighbors were saying the same thing. At a meeting we banded together to fight this massive industrial scheme.

Driving home I whistled a happy tune. Not because I saw an end to the feuds. But because the most hated man in the Squalor Zone was no longer me.

Copyright © 2008 by Bill Vaughn