In 1973, when I was 10 years old, my newly remarried mother packed me and my bike in the car, drove to Virginia and deposited us both at my mamaw’s.

People in the South call their family members “mamaw” and “papaw,” or “mommy” and “daddy,” even when they are full-grown adults with their own children.

Her full name was “Mamaw Pat.” She had coarse black hair that she dyed on a regular basis, high cheekbones, skinny lips and sharp dark eyes. In her old black-and-white pictures she never smiled and always looked very dignified and exotic. She occasionally whispered, shamefully, that somebody in the family “married an Ind’an,” and that it was a long time ago.

In her more recent color pictures she had a tendency to look confused, and when her hair was messy I thought she looked as scary as Nebuchadnezzar from the Bible, except she didn’t eat grass as far as I knew. She was afraid of black cats, the dark in general, noises in the dark, and naturally, dead people.

She was crazy, of course, and I loved her as much as my bike and my Walter Farley books. Which is why I was willing to endure the trip.

Three colored-pencil drawings and 12 “Gentle Ben” chapters of flat interstate. Exit. More drawing, while the landscape changed to gently rolling hills — then began the sickening climbs and twists and turns through the trees, around steep ridges, the car’s automatic transmission always groaning.

The sunlight flashed on and off through the filter of dense leaves, while our tires made the hot gooey bubbles on the ancient pavement pop and crack like bubble wrap pinched between your fingers. Finally the last two miles on a more-dirt-than-gravel road, spiraling deeper into the woods, passing a handful of crumbling houses obscured by weeds and mountain laurels, a dip, a hill, a bend in the road, and there it was, her tiny wooden house with the shabby porch, nestled in a “holler,” far away from legal beer and indoor plumbing.

My plan for day one — look around. I climbed on the couch on my knees and looked out the wide open window.

There was a house next door, only a garden’s length away. The house was made of straight logs, painted peeling black and whatever was stuffed in between the logs was painted peeling white. The cabin door was open, so open that I wondered if there was any door at all.

I saw the old man limping around in the garden in his factory shirt and factory blue pants. I could hear him talking to himself, saying mostly words I wasn’t allowed to say.

He had a gun.

“Who’s that guy?” I asked my mamaw, who was on the floor searching through some 8-track tapes, probably looking for Percy Sledge.

“That’s Virgil. He cain’t hear good, at’s why he talks s’loud.”

Virgil had spotted my gawking head, raised his gun and was staring down the barrel at me.

“He’s going to shoot me, I think,” I said, matter-of-factly.

Mamaw Pat looked up briefly. ”Well gosh-a-mighty, git your head outta the winder. He’s hateful.”

I moved away from the window on my slowest speed. I heard Virgil cackle extra loud.

I sat my bottom down on the couch and looked at Mamaw, who had found her tape. ”I’ll bet he doesn’t have any bullets. How come he limps?”

“He don’t have a leg, and he’s got plenty a bullets, ’cause he shoots at stuff up in the woods all the time.”

“Did he shoot his leg off?” I asked, which in my mind perfectly explained why he was so grouchy. I was already picturing the whole gory scene in my head, and wondered what sort of contraption he hobbled around on underneath his pants leg. Probably a peeling black stump that matched his house.

“Lost it in the mines.” In Virginia, everybody lost chunks of their bodies in the mines, including eyeballs. She slid the tape in the player, and Percy sang, “When a Man Loves a Woman.”

The next morning I got on my bike and headed straight away to park on the road directly in front of Virgil’s house and stared at him. A creek trickled between the road and his cabin, so he had a real bridge, wide enough for one car. I wanted to ride my bike on his bridge, but Mamaw said “NO TRESPASSIN’.” She didn’t want Virgil to shoot at me, since my mother would get mad and probably not let me visit again.

Virgil was puttering around outside, doing whatever it was that he did all day. He pretended to ignore me. I knew he was pretending because of the muttering. Virgil’s muttering was more in the category of loud talking.

He loud-talked a few things about bratty kids who don’t have nothin’ to do but “pester, pester, pester.” Every now and then he spit, for punctuation.

When I was sure a decent amount of pestering had come to pass, I waved and smiled a huge smile, and rode back to Mamaw’s. Virgil made a “go away” gesture with his hand and spit again.

I repeated my bad behavior every day, sometimes more than once. Except I took to greeting him with “HI, VIRGIL!” in a loud voice. Plus I inched my front tire on his bridge.

On about the fifth day I got up early and looked out the window. Virgil was already outside, and seemed to be in good mood. He was laughing to himself and even gave a little wave when he saw me.

He was expecting me, apparently, like the next hiccup or bellyache after too many green apples. Maybe I could get TWO tires on his bridge today.

I raced out to Mamaw’s shed to get my bike. I swung around the corner and peered inside.

Empty. No bike. Nothing.

Except the note. Handwritten in not-sharp pencil, tacked on the door frame with a giant, crooked, rusty nail.

“tRashMan caMe and Got YouR JuNK.”

I heard his loud devil cackle across the garden. I figured he was probably even doing a one-legged jig, spinning on his peeling black stumpy leg.

That guy was a one-legged, bike-snatching, bridge troll.

I put my hands on my hips, squinted my eyes into mad slits, and spit.

This was war. Mission No. 1: Recover bike.

Mission No. 2: Revenge.

(TO BE CONTINUED NEXT FRIDAY.)

Theresa Timmons is an Elwood resident and can be reached at paperflinger40@yahoo.com.