Bubble officially burst

I want my bubble back. I want to turn back the clock about 10 days, to a time before a mass murderer lived within seven minutes from my rural home in the woods.

It's a bit surreal, living just south of the Mount Vernon city limits, where national media have descended in the last week as the story of a family kidnapping and murder has unfolded.

I'm not naive. It's not that I ever thought this sort of thing didn't happen in the world—my world. I readily expect to hear and digest the headlines with a degree of numb detachment in New York, in LA, even in Columbus—the nearest "big" city to our little Central Ohio town. And sure, I accept the fact that there's some really scummy people that have graced the sidewalks in our picturesque, historic square.

I've even been spooked on our wooded, remote acreage because of the sheer darkness that can swallow you at night and the wild animals that roam our area.

But until that wordly, high-crime "What if" feeling became a reality this week, well, it wasn't something I worried about.

In case you missed the headlines everywhere, a mentally twisted man kidnapped a family; murdered two moms, an 11-year-old boy and the family dog; did who knows what to the 13-year old daughter he spared from death before she was rescued; and stuffed the family's remains in a hollow tree in the middle of a wildlife area.

I have played with Noah in the lake in that area. And David hunted there a few years ago.

I pass the suspect's house when I drop off my recycling, and I passed there weekly this summer when I took Noah to swim lessons.

We frequent the Wal-Mart where he bought the tarp and trash bags he used, and the bike trail they searched at length is one our family visits as often as we can.

I even learned that my sister-in-law went to high school with him—in a town that neighbored my own growing up.

So, now what?

Some big-city folks might say that this is a tragic, but necessary, reminder for me that the bad guys are everywhere—even in small towns crisscrossed with cornfields.

I get that. I know that.

But it stings, this intrusion into my safety net and our family's choice to live in the country, where we hope Noah thrives in the fresh air and will have room to make mistakes as he grows without the pressures of the city. And for me it's a place where the stars light up the sky and the silence is calming.

I remember when David and I chose Mount Vernon as our home after (for me) 10 years of living in Columbus' quiet, peaceful village of Westerville (as the Otterbein Love Song officially goes). We were driving home from Easter dinner at my folks' house, and rather than sit in the parking lot on I-71, we took the long way home on Rte. 3—through Amish country, Loudonville (Mohican) and then Mount Vernon.

The rolling hills were breathtaking even in the mushy and barren beginnings of spring, and the winding roads were the kind that made you want to roll down your windows as you drove, breathing in the scents of nature.  

Yesterday as I watched the news break about the discovery of the bodies, it felt intimidating to look outside at crooked trees and...nothing. Suddenly I felt like things—people—could lurk in places I once thought were beds for deer and shacks for firewood. I felt like I should check my doors before going to bed, a habit I've fallen lax on in recent months (and never experienced growing up in my parent's country home).

I hope it's just temporary, this feeling of intrusion, of worry, of sadness for what is and what once was... that awful feeling of having your security bubble burst.