Baker Hill(Sylvia Skrmetta) Baker Hill
by Sylvia Skrmetta


The beautifully hand-carved sign seemed to beacon my mind as it announced so eloquently the property dubbed Baker Hill. Yet, once my eyes passed over the sign and down the dirt driveway, Baker Hill was nothing more than a very large mound of sun-dried yellow dirt. Perhaps bulldozers had dug and pushed the loamy soil to a peak to form a sort of valley and “hill”. All total, the sparse property was no bigger than an acre or two with virgin woods surrounding it.

On top of the “hill” was an old rundown singlewide trailer surrounded by equally as dilapidated manufactured homes. I imagine the trailer at the top of the “hill” belonged to the reigning family member, perhaps Ma and Pa Baker.

The trailers faced in different directions, but they all seemed to have at least a partial view of the road from their front doors. The only vehicles on the property were the ones set on concrete blocks, or rusty old vintage cars of the 1980’s with so much rust the original color was hard to determine. Undoubtedly these heirlooms had met their doom early in life. Even the child’s bicycle that lay half-buried in the dirt had serious issues. Nevertheless, nothing in the transportation department on the property seemed viable.

There was absolutely no activity on the Baker plantation this particular afternoon. I’m guessing everyone piled in one or two driveable vehicles and headed off to parts unknown. Perhaps the entire clan was enjoying some fellowship after Sunday service, or maybe they were at a huge family reunion down by the ole creek. It was possible, of course, that everyone was just taking a nap after a busy week of “tryin’ to make ends meet,” or maybe they were all just “plum-puckered-out” from Saturday night’s activities.

By the look of their housing, I would say that the Bakers were poor people, or at least somewhere between poor and “ain’t got a pot to piss in.” On any normal day…but I can’t really say if this day wasn’t the norm, there might have been a couple of barefoot, half-naked children running around in the dirt while Grandma Baker sat under the shade of an old oak tree sipping her sweet tea. Now everyone knows Grandma is a bad diabetic and isn’t supposed to be drinking sweet tea, but I feel sure she has told all her kin to “mind yer own damn business,” as she reaches for a piece of store-bought pecan pie. Grandma most likely has already lost one leg from an infection that wouldn’t heal, and probably doesn’t mind it so much cause nobody asks her to “do much of nothin’” since the amputation. She kinda likes it that way.

Saturday night is undoubtedly the night everyone piles in their old trucks, Chevys, or Fords (no decent Southerner would own anything but American-made) and head down to the casino where the drinks are free for the askin’. With a beer in one hand, a cigarette hanging from their lips, and their other hand workin’ the buttons of the slot machine like a concert pianist, time would just fly by as they try to win the “big one” at the penny machines.

It’s possible though that they might all just hang-out in one of the trailers and watch college football. It wouldn’t take long for a singlewide to get chockfull of stinky cigarette smoke, and the sour smell of stale beer spilled in the shag green carpet during last week’s gathering. Of course, most of the time individuals cater to drinkin’ hard liquor, but since kinfolk are present, they’d feel obligated to share their “good stuff” so beer it is. Late night Saturday entertainment might reinforce the theory of napping on a Sunday afternoon.

The absence of a dog or dogs lying around the Baker place is a puzzle. There are always dogs. Dogs and trailers are sort of a given. Usually, there is a big, lazy, black or yeller dog or two doing much of nothing, just lying in the shade, and occasionally opening one eye to make sure none of the rambunctious children snuck up on him to smack him on the head with an old tree limb. Sometimes, just for the hell of it, the old hound might actually bark at something, this only to earn his keep. He rarely, if ever, actually chases anything, not even the pesky grey squirrel that brazenly runs two feet from his keen nose at least twice a day.

I’m hoping all the singlewides have people residing in them, and none of them are being used for concocting meth. I only say that because these parts are pretty darn famous for amateur chemists. The old wooden shed, that seems rather odd sitting way back at the edge of the woods, may be housing truckloads of fertilizer, drain cleaners, brake fluids and a couple hundred boxes of pseudoephedrine…and only God knows what else. (As I think about this, I get rather angry because I can no longer go to the local drugstore and buy a decongestant over-the-counter.) Perhaps the entire “Baker Hill” facade is just that - a smokescreen! Yes, that would explain why no one is around on such a beautiful cool fall day. Either everyone is dead from inhaling toxic fumes, or it’s only occupied at night by the local chemists. I just hope the children got out safely.

As Baker Hill fades from my view, thoughts pertaining to the small commune continue to swirl around in my head in colorful pictures and descriptive words. I should be empyting my active brain, enjoying the cool wind in my face, feel the closeness of my husband as he races us on our motorcycle through the countryside. Instead, I can’t help thinking of the people and the possibilities of Baker Hill.

The End

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