One symbol of freedom

It was one of the many benefits of living in the middle of nowhere, Maine. From my front door, I had my choice of a variety of running routes, all made of miles of scenic, secluded dirt roads and trails.

It was a feeling of freedom to get strong enough that I no longer ran for a known distance, but by minutes or even hours, however I felt that particular day. It was also freeing to allow the dogs to run with me, without leashes, because I could trust them not to chase any wild animals, such as the moose, deer or occasional bear we saw.

And then with one threat, my freedom was taken away. My closest year-round neighbor was one-half-mile away, and I passed his house on the way to mine. About two months after I moved into my peaceful cabin on the Webb River, that neighbor was arrested for drug dealing. He was soon out, pending trial.

Because I was new to the area, and from out-of-state, he reached the conclusion that I was somehow responsible for his arrest. He called me, claiming that I must be the "narc" who had turned him in to the police, and vowed that he would get even.

A night later, alcohol or drugs slurring his words, he called to let me know he was coming to my house to kill me and my dogs. So I called the police, trusting that they would be able to prevent that, and help me.

But I had overlooked the fact that I was in rural Maine. The county sheriff's department and the Maine State Police took turns covering the area, and the dispatcher informed me that she'd sent a state policeman to cover the complaint, and that he was presently 40 minutes away.

The state policeman finally arrived; my neighbor had never showed. I wrote out the complaint on the paper he gave me, and the officer had a talk with my neighbor.

After that, it got worse.

When I went running, he'd come after me on his ATV. I'd be on a trail loop and hear its engine, far off. I'd run straight into the woods, and hide, where I could see the trail.

Sometimes I'd see my neighbor on his ATV, going slow, standing on the foot pegs, looking into the woods; sometimes it was someone else, just out for a ride.

I took a friend's advice, and got a concealed-weapons permit. In Maine, you get those permits from your local elected officials, called selectmen. They vote on it at a public meeting. In my town of 200 residents, it didn't take long before everybody knew that I'd gotten a concealed-weapons permit.

It was like magic. My 6-foot, 6-inches tall, 350-pound neighbor's threats and chasing stopped.

And the thing is, I didn't even own a handgun at that time (I'm proud to own one now, along with a Pennsylvania concealed carry permit). My neighbor just thought I did. He couldn't have a gun because he was a felon; the fact that I could legally own and conceal a gun gave me control over his actions.

I wore my T-shirts baggy, as if over a holster, and ran the roads and trails again with the confidence the rumored presence of the gun gave me. I developed affection for my imaginary gun and guns in general, and their very real power to return freedom to law-abiding lives.