The End of the Road

The last real house on the point belonged to the Blackfords, an old island family who had mostly died out by the time I was a child. It sat up on the hill directly across from the breakwater and past it were the shacks inhabited by the most desperately poor and Old Hat, the shotgun-toting resident mad woman. It was as if an invisible line had been drawn at the edge of the Blackford property and to cross it invited peril. It was a land unto itself - a handful of falling down one or two room shacks set back from the path and surrounded by litter - broken wagon wheels, rusty barrels, boards with nails waiting for unsuspecting small feet, useless appliances, abandoned rocking chairs, the remnants of a whiskey still. Nana called it The End of the Road and we were strictly forbidden to pass it. Don't go past The End of the Road was a morning litany and was always followed by Aunt Florrie will be watching.

Aunt Florrie was the last living Blackford. She lived alone and spent most of her time on her sunporch, doing delicate embroidery and keeping watch for straying children. She and Old Hat were bitter enemies as more than one misdirected shotgun blast had found its way to her windows, once frightening her so badly that she had fainted and fallen down the outside steps. When she came to, it was in the mainland hospital with a broken hip and a grudge that she held the rest of her life. Even before her hip fully healed, she had become the self appointed sentinel of The End of the Road. She had found an old pair of binoculars and stationed herself where she had a clear view and could monitor Old Hat and keep an eye out for the children who were so tempted to trespass. She would coax us away with cookies, ice cream, a game of dominoes, even a new litter of kittens. Then she would talk to us ever so seriously about the dangers of crossing the line - how a shard of glass could slash an ankle or a rusty nail could cause blood poisoning, how we could fall and break a leg, how we'd never be able to outrun a shotgun blast. This last said with a clenched jaw and a vindictive gleam in her eyes. She warned us of gangrene,
reptiles, old uncovered wells, farm implements with teeth. One step over the line could be your last! she told us grimly. And we listened with wide eyed fascination and belief, impressed and enchanted as only children can be with such tales of horror. Then she would smile sweetly at us and say Now let's all have cookies!

Aunt Florrie and Old Hat feuded the rest of their lives but at a distance. After they were both gone, the islanders would say that the frequent thunderstorms were the two old women quarreling in heaven.