"What place?" the Nubian crosses would say. "Not THIS place?" and then they would look around with all-encompassing looks of alarm, at the meadow with the frogs, the madrona forest on the other side, the hill leading up to the big barn, the buck shack, the willow trees along the creek.
"No," Wronny would explain for the umpteenth time. " Just THIS place."
"Oh." They would say. "Oh. Okay."
"Just this place," Big Orange would murmur.
"Okay then," Moony would repeat."Just this place."
Nubian crisis averted.
Anyway a few weeks ago after 12 years or so of unveiled threats a man named Charles arrived out of the blue and looked at the Cabana appraisingly with the farmer standing next to him, both of them staring with arms crossed and blank faces.
"So this is the place." he said.
"Yes." said the farmer.
He did not seem like the type for idle chitcat, certainly not of 12 years duration. He had with him a large black box on wheels.
"Ok." He said. "Let's get started."
He opened the box and took out a sledgehammer. And thus it began.