The only legal path in or out ran along the eastern edge of Route 9, straight through the 12- ft corridor, the same corridor the bank was about to auction. Opening bid, $5,000.
Gerald did the math. The developer had already spent millions buying the land, and they still did not own the one piece they needed most. So Gerald set his limit at $8,000 just to make sure he got there first.
Gerald drove home from the auction with the deed in his shirt pocket. Margaret was waiting at the kitchen table. Did you get it? We got it. And now what? Gerald thought for a moment.
Now we wait. Margaret had known him for 38 years. She knew when he was guessing and when he was certain. This was certainty. How long? She asked. However long it takes.
She nodded once, stood up, and put the kettle on. They barely spoke about that land again for years. Gerald maintained the strip the way he maintained everything he owned, carefully, quietly, without attention.
He mowed it twice a year, paid the taxes every year, $47, always on time. He kept the markers clear. To everyone else, it was 12 ft of grass beside Route 9.
Out of Gerald, it was unfinished business. Then came the first offer. In 2008, a real estate agent from Nashville knocked on his door. Young, polished. He offered $80,000 for parcel 7c, 10 times what Gerald had paid.
Most people would have signed. Gerald smiled politely. Not interested. The agent said the number could go higher. I’m sure it can,” Gerald said. Then he closed the door. Margaret had heard everything.
“$80,000?” Gerald nodded. “That’s a lot of money.” “It is.” And you still said, “No.” “I did.” She looked at him for a moment, then went back to the kitchen. She never asked again.
Years passed. Then the county called. They offered $120,000. Gerald thanked them. then declined. Can I ask why? The commissioner said, “Because it isn’t time yet.” “Time for what?” Gerald never answered.
