Theft by Inches

How to Steal a Heritage

City folk sometimes profess strange views of country life. My Bostonian boss was invited deer hunting. He showed up packing a snub-nose revolver. His Vermont hosts strained mightily to keep straight faces.

Country living can be bucolic, but it’s not all Bambi and Peter Cottontail. No, there’s no Dick Hickock or Perry Smith hiding amid the cornstalks, no human hunt à la Deliverance. But crimes occur, skulduggery found only in farms and fields and forests.

Rustlin’ still occurs and sometimes the goal is cattle, sometimes not. Prize lambs or show fowl (look up crested black Polish), cultivated marijuana, and even milk have been targeted, often raided not by horsemen, but truck drivers with semi tractors.

One of the saddest thefts occurred between the village of Arlington, Indiana, and the county seat of Rushville. A family lived at the end of a long country lane, far enough they wouldn’t be disturbed by traffic along US Highway 52. The entrance was guarded by two giant sentinels, a pair of walnut trees nearing their third century.

After a vacation, the family returned home. Those beautiful walnuts, older than our nation, were missing, sawn to their roots. Monetary value, well into six figures. Sentimental value, priceless.

Turned on a sort of spit, blades shave paper-thin peelings from ancient hardwoods. Their end use includes veneers in entertainment centers and furniture, a killing for the bad guys. For the family to lose an irreplaceable heirloom of their homestead… you can imagine the pain. To my knowledge, the crooks were never identified.

How to Steal a Farm

Usually generations of farm neighbors find an accord and are often kind and supportive, especially in time of need. But some neighbors are… What’s the polite expression? Apertures-of-the-Anus?

Farming and ranching are risky professions. Crops may fail two, three, or more years in a row. Cattle, hogs, even chickens may be struck by disease. A big city banker could foreclose on that recent loan. And yet it was a life my father hated to leave.

When I was a teen, we left the last of our historical homestead, six generations on a land grant signed by Andrew Jackson. We moved to fifteen acres, fields and pasture, orchard, barn, and ancient farmhouse. Our livestock was minimal and Dad rented the acreage rather than continue farming.

All went well for a few years, but one day he noticed the east fence was down and the next day, missing altogether. No problem, no risk of losing livestock. Neither we nor the neighbor used the field for pasture.

John Deere cornbine

Cultivated land develops an imprinted ‘memory’ of sorts. Centuries of plowing compress and expand soil in a pattern. Soon, Father noticed land along the fencerow had narrowed a full furrow, say, sixteen inches. Funny thing, that strip of grass disappeared entirely the following spring. Dad raised an eyebrow, but thus far, our furrows remained intact.

Because of crop rotation, the neighbor switched plantings. Dad now believed cornrows were missing. When he confronted the transgressor, the man laughed.

So Dad had a quiet word with the sheriff, who claimed he could do nothing. “What about trespassing?” Dad asked.

Sheriff chuckled. “Unlikely. A prosecutor will never waste his time on something like that. If you’re thinking about suing, you’re talking big bucks for a good lawyer.”

Word got back to the neighbor that our efforts to oust him had proved futile. But there was a larger problem. If the neighbor continued to occupy our land, he might be able to grandfather a claim called adverse possession. Defend it or lose it.

Dad fumed. But an idea struck.

Next spring, he watched an emboldened neighbor cut deeper into our fields. Dad simply observed while the man leveled furrows with a disc harrow, planted corn, and fertilized it.

The corn grew tall, exceeding the height of a grown man. Meanwhile, Dad had another quiet talk with a professional, a lean fellow in a fedora. He also made arrangements with a local company.

Over an August weekend when most farmers attended the local Pioneer Engineers Club exhibition, the professional visited the fields, leaving behind small ribbons and magnetized stakes.

The company Father visited– a fence company– strung barbed wire through tall corn based on markers left by the surveyor.

The neighbor was irate. He stormed over to our house and demanded to see our father. Mother made him wait.

Dad was– picture this– six foot four, two hundred and forty pounds. Our neighbor… wasn’t. For the first time, he seemed to realize his predicament.

Still, he managed a snarl. “You built that damn fence on my property.”

“Not according to the surveyor. You stole upwards of an acre.”

The neighbor shouted something about dung-of-a-bovidae. “I didn’t know I stepped over the fence line. Why didn’t you be neighborly and tell me?” Everyone stared at him in disbelief. “Well, you could have let me harvest my corn.”

“Our corn,” said Dad.

My parents had no further trouble from the neighbor. But have you ever imagined land rustlin’?