F

or a time when I was eight or nine, in the mid-'60s, my friends Jawbone and Mothman shared my wary concern for the Middaugh brothers, who were ancient old men, the two remaining brothers, it was said, of identical triplets. Only a handful of people in our village knew the brothers' first names, and those people didn't talk about the Middaughs, who had stopped being neighborly 30 years before, after their brother died of some peculiar and unlikely disease. Their house had since fallen into disrepair and their yard was overgrown with vines and an endless tangle of fallen oak and maple limbs, though there was always an abundance of shiny new No Trespassing signs. Sometimes strangers stopped to explore what they assumed was the abandoned house only to find themselves running for the road after a shotgun blast from the front porch realigned their evaluation.

The Middaughs lived on the farm adjacent to my family's property, and my pals and I would see them occasionally as they drove by in their rusted-out 1948 Ford paneled station wagon, which they drove around the perimeter of the farm daily, stopping randomly to hike into the property. We always waved and, without eye contact, they would barely raise a hand in reserved acknowledgement.

Their farm was off-limits to us boys, making it irresistible. Our parents respected their neighbors' privacy and insisted that we did as well. We agreed because disagreement wasn't an option and we had no interest in interacting with the brothers; however, we often stretched the rules and were fond of trespassing on their land because of its wealth of blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, apples, pears, currants, and plums growing in ridiculous abundance, perhaps because they'd not been harvested in decades. Everything was overgrown and difficult to get to. The Middaughs didn't collect these treasures but let them grow wild from what had previously been meticulously well-tended crops. We suspected that they ate only Spam, stray kittens, and the occasional surprised tourist seasoned with shotgun rock salt.

We agreed because disagreement wasn't an option and we had no interest in interacting with the brothers

"I bet trespassers would taste better," said Mothman, "if the Middaughs added some paprika and garlic powder to their rock salt."

"Ha! Seasoned and tenderized," said Jawbone. "Definitely the way to go. Why don't you knock on their door and suggest it?"

"Knock yourself, you useless dingleberry."

"I ain't useless. Looks like I'm the only one who remembered a saw." He held up his bow saw, which would be necessary on this excursion. We were hiding in the woods across from the Middaugh house to observe movement and better judge the best time to invade their fields, hoping to see that they were in for the day and unlikely to run into us. It was early December so we wouldn't be looking for strawberries or apples. This was a particularly tactical operation. Besides growing the most delicious blackberries anywhere, the Middaugh farm hosted the handsomest wild Christmas trees we'd run across, discovered on one of our raids. There were plenty of scraggly pines on our own farms, but while scavenging for apples we had found balsam firs. There was a stand of them on the upland part of the property to the north, an area full of 25-foot trees, but there were plenty of younger balsams growing along with the maple, aspen, and birch that dominated those woods.

This was a particularly tactical operation

Our parents thought we were volunteering to cut the family Christmas trees on our own property, and we weren't motivated to disabuse them of that assumption. As long as we didn't lie, we were in the clear, right? Besides, we had pine trees; balsam firs were better for hanging even heavy ornaments, and they smelled nice for a long time.

While we knew every gulley, creek, field, pond, hedgerow, and stand of woods on our own farms, we made as few excursions onto Middaugh land as was reasonable and were less sure of our navigation, though we were confident we'd find the right place again, as long as we weren't caught. That was the one essential element for most of our cunning strategies: Don't get caught.

It didn't seem too long before the '48 station wagon lumbered along and pulled up next to the caved-in barn. The brothers emerged, and we gasped because it was a rare sighting, like seeing a black bear in our woods. We almost never saw the Middaugh brothers except when they drove by, and there they were, standing and walking while smoking their pipes in their dark antique suits and carefully climbing the remaining porch steps to go inside.

The brothers emerged, and we gasped because it was a rare sighting

We ran from the trees to the road and started jogging. The field we wanted to enter was a quarter mile away, but we got there quickly and veered into the tall dead reeds projecting up through the snow like the pikestaffs of a medieval army. Furious clouds the color of wet river slate roiled between us and the sun, casting a sallow gloom and dampening the previously blinding white snow, now barely able to define our shadows beyond vague splotches.

We started in a wrong direction but when we ran across the bottomless old stone well that Jawbone once threw my sneaker into, we knew where we were and soon found our trees. We explored and found three that we liked, and Jawbone was just starting to saw the first one, with Mothman and me offering advice, when a voice materialized out of the cosmic void to signal our imminent, catastrophic, excruciating demise:

"Technically, that's destruction of property, trespassing, and theft."

The depth of that voice rumbled into inaudible frequencies, peppered with gravelly vowels like winter ice storms howling through narrow mountain passes. Jawbone dropped the saw and scrambled up as Mothman and I spun around to see two gaunt and wire-thin men dressed identically in black suits, smoking identical corn cob pipes. Their features were identical as well. The only difference was that one carried his shotgun in the crook of his left arm and the other in his right. Mothman screamed and with both hands grabbed his crotch.

I spun around to see two gaunt and wire-thin men dressed identically in black suits, smoking identical corn cob pipes

Bewilderment flashed across their flat expressions. Lefty said, "Is that some sort of obscene gesture, son? Are you insulting us?"

"No sir," said Mothman, gulping in oxygen. "I was checking to see if I peed myself. I felt like I could have, but I didn't." He held up his hands. "See?"

The two tall men stared at us for what seemed too long, then looked at each other and chuckled. It was the last reaction we expected and we relaxed a little. Maybe this was a good sign. Maybe they wouldn't shoot, butcher, and eat us, and then fertilize the balsam firs with the scraps.

"Congratulations," said Lefty. He did all the talking for the brothers, though they glanced often at one another as if exchanging thoughts via micro-expressions. "Not peeing yourself is a good thing. Now what are we going to do with this situation? Call the police? Call your parents? Call the undertaker?"

We had no response. Our fate was no longer in our control. "You know that this land is posted, right? And yet you continue to come here and take what you like. We've noticed the excursions for raspberries and apples and we stayed quiet, but this?" He gestured at the tree. "What makes you think there's anything right about this?"

Our fate was no longer in our control

In my defense, my brain didn't reach the partial maturity I now enjoy until I was 30 and logic wasn't my defining characteristic. "But there are hundreds going to waste," I said. "They just grow here for free."

The brothers glanced at one another and the articulate member of the pair crouched to speak with us on the same level. "Let us ask you this: If you had a giant collection of marbles, thousands of marbles, and you cherished each one, would you approve of your friends helping themselves to whatever marbles they liked without telling you, just because you had a lot of them?"

"But trees and black raspberries grow back," said Jawbone. "Marbles don't."

The Middaughs paused and simultaneously lit their pipes. It was a surreal moment, as if we were watching one figure next to his reflection in a mirror. They even exhaled their smoke at the same time. "That tobacco smells strange, but nice," said Mothman, trying to divert the conversation and ingratiate himself. "My dad smokes Half and Half."

"That tobacco smells strange, but nice"

"He's a lucky man. We used to smoke Half and Half, but these days, corn silk and mint leaves are plenty good enough. We pick mint leaves over there near the creek every year and dry them, and there's enough corn growing wild that we're never without silk. We even make our own pipes. In fact, we were foraging for new reed stems when we ran across you, but not in time to save that tree. This land gives us everything we need. You may not understand how important that is to us. We don't like people coming here and messing it up."

"Sorry sir," said Jawbone. "It won't happen again."

"It will happen again. We've fired in the air at you in the past and that didn't stop you. So now, extraordinary solutions are necessary. Follow us." They turned and walked toward a grouping of quaking aspen. We had no choice but to follow until we came to an area we had not seen before. It was a family cemetery, overgrown with weeds and shrubs and hidden from view behind a circle of trees.

"This is our family," said Mr. Middaugh. "Our mother and father are over there. Here's our brother. The rest are cousins and aunts and uncles. They're part of this land now, and that's why we protect it. We're the last of the Middaughs. When we're gone, our family is over. In the meantime, we just want to be left alone."

"When we're gone, our family is over"

We gazed at the ancient headstones, some dating to the early 1800s. The place had a comforting feel despite being a graveyard in the middle of nowhere.

"We have a proposal for you boys. It's clear that nothing will keep you from invading our property. We were boys once and know this to be true, so we're willing to grant you limited access."

"Limited access?" said Jawbone. I could see that he already objected to the "limited" part.

"If you want pears or plums or strawberries or Christmas trees, you can have them, but we require that you notify us in advance with a note in our mailbox, and limit yourself to no more than one visit a month. Don't tell anyone else. We'll stay out of your way if you treat the land with respect and don't abuse our hospitality."

We immediately recognized the superiority of a plan that did not include our burials. "That's kind and generous of you," said Mothman. We of course accepted. "Does that mean ... ?" said Jawbone, trailing off as he pointed to the partially cut tree.

"Yes, you can have your trees. Just be gone in 30 minutes, and we don't expect to see you on this property again until spring. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Mothman. "Thank you."

The brothers turned and walked back toward their house. We finished cutting the trees and went home, where our families were amazed at the quality of the trees we had found.

The next week, Mothman, Jawbone, and I pooled some of our money and rode our bikes to Mayor's Smoke Shop in town 10 miles away, and we bought a tub of Half and Half. Kids could buy tobacco back then. It was common for a grade-schooler to walk to the corner shop and buy cigarettes for their parents. Simpler times.

... our families were amazed at the quality of the trees we had found

Tensions between the Middaughs and us decreased significantly after we made sure they were gone and left the Half and Half, wrapped in gaudy Christmas paper, on their front porch. It became a yearly tradition until the brothers passed a few years later. We would help ourselves to the superior bounty of the Middaugh land all year, and on Christmas we'd deliver another tub of Half and Half. We think it was a nice treat for the brothers.

The next time they drove past us, we waved, and they actually looked at us, smiled with their pipes in their teeth, and waved back. The power of family, of youth, and of Christmas had met, and everyone was better for it.