Attention rural nonprofits!

If you want to advertise an event to drivers navigating even a rural byway, take my advise and use BIG lettering - and not too many words!

I've been drivin' by the California Deer Association's poster promoting the 'Animal Banquet' (...or, could it be 'Annual Banquet'??) for weeks now.

For the life of me I can't make out the (much smaller) third line which could EITHER say 'serving deer' or 'saving deer'. Take your pick.

It's clear, in this case, that size DOES matter.

If it's an 'Animal Banquet Serving Deer', I'm IN.

If it's an 'Annual Banquet' for the purpose of SAVING deer, in my humble opinion (and those of my esteemed gardener neighbors in our small town) - thank you for the invite, but we're a tad overrrun with largess already.

However - we'd be HAPPY to donate deer to your cause.

Out here in our rural community, the donations are strictly 'catch 'n carry'.

Just sayin'...

We own no domestic animals on our Back 40 - supposedly because we want to 'keep it wild' but ALSO because neither of us are good at animal tendin'.

That doesn't mean I don't get tempted from time to time - but sometimes I believe it's by the idea more than the reality.

For example, I could start small, with the acquisition of a pot-bellied pig and a chicken.

When one owns pets, one has license to fly with their names. Livestock are no different.

I would name the pig 'Ham' and the chicken 'Eggs', so that in the morning I could awaken neighbors with the feeding call of 'Ham 'n Eggs: come and get it!"

I had believed my notion unique: so imagine my surprise when i discovered some of my rural neighbors more serious about 4H indeed chose names (if they named at all) relating to food.

Thus one neighbor's 4H kids proudly reared the prize-winning Pork Chop and Hamburger, another fattened up Pot Roast, and a third enjoyed the too-brief company of Shank the Lamb.

Names: they really pinpoint your future role in life.

Just ask Bacon, Pork Chop and Hamburger...

It was thirty years of fierce battle on American soil; but in 1841 the Russians finally left for good.

There wasn’t a drop of American blood spilled. And no, we didn’t sneak in under cover of darkness to poison their Vodka stash, either.

Nope: the California Russian Invasion was defeated by two mighty forces which could neither be blown to bits nor compromised. Yeah, I’m talking gophers … and California’s notorious North Coast Fog.

Frankly, I know JUST how the Russians feel. There’s a black hole of gophers here in Bloomfield and an infinite replicator at the other end of said hole. Kill one and the only apparent difference is that a twin pops out of the ground one hole (i.e. 1 inch) away to thumb its nose atcha (likely trying to ‘kill with cute’.) Kill a hundred and a hundred memorial gopher mounds spring up in your favorite garden patch the next day: both a service for the bereaved and the answer to apparent genocide in a massive retaliatory effort.

Now, the Russians came to Northern California with high hopes. Their motives were pure: they merely wished to plant crops to feed their starving Alaskan colonies – and a neato place to offload some 41 cannons from das boat didn’t hurt either (…and who packs a boatload of cannons for an extended vacation?? Inquiring minds wanna know…) – which is why the coastal refuge of Fort Ross was SOOO appealing. They didn’t even enslave their newfound Native American neighbors: they married ‘em (there must’ve been some heavy vodka partying on all sides after THAT idea!)

It’s ironic to think that instead of placing their cannons outward, the Russians would’ve been better off had they attempted a shelling of the soil where the REAL enemy lie in wait.

I can just picture the first struggling plant shoots making their way through the soil, the impromptu Vodka party and Russian kick-dancing which resulted that night – and the ‘WTF’ moment the next morning when they found ALL 1,000 shoots sucked down into black holes overnight. I’m sure half a day was spent recovering from the last evening’s hangover and blaming this sordid event on hallucinations or too much partyin’ before they finally realized the REAL obstacles to success lay deep underground (likely chuckling, and with full tummies, as they welcomed the Russian ‘invasion’ – which at that point, to Mr. Gopher, was likely synonymous with ‘full larder’).

A side note: leader Ivan Kuskov had also thoughtfully brought a raft of otters, intending to raise otters by the shores and export their profitable furs to Mother Russia. ( Ed.’s note: Wow. Between 41 cannons and a raft of playful otters onboard, that ship was PACKED. ) Guess what?? A mere 30 years later there were NO otters (methinks the Gopher Brigade likely had underwater hideyholes for when the garden veggie raids just weren’t enough….)

Indeed, Russia’s greatest coup may have occurred in 1841, when they gave up the good fight and sold their fort to one John Sutter, turned their pigs loose in a final spasm of revenge (it’s where California’s notorious modern feral pigs come from!) and took their Pomo Indian wives back home to Mother Russia (the Kashaya Pomo are STILL trying to locate their distant kin in Russia. (Ed.’s note: After generations in warm California, likely they froze to death upon hitting the frigid shores of their new Siberian home…)

And the fog which also caused much Russian angst? (Ed’s note: you’d THINK peoples from a perpetually-frigid Arctic world would merely chuckle at a leetle fog…)

It, too, was Left Behind.

So today here on the Northern California rural coastline we enjoy: lovely views (on the few days fog permits such – which always prompts a plethora of real estate agents to QUICK get out the signage and get those sales contracts in blood before the fog returns to claim said view!), sad Russian history, the annual Feral Pig Hunt, and the restored remains of a grand ole’ fort that proudly proclaims Russians DID indeed land on California soil with high hopes.

All they left with was our Pomos.

They DID leave behind a few extra cannons, however. Some 41.

And on the Gopher Issue: me, I’m all for SHELLING, myself…make use of this wayward artillery!

The best (unofficial) bulletin boards of West Sonoma County reside in an informal location, resting on a local cattle rancher’s fenceline at the intersection of two major backcountry roads. It’s where we get our local events news.  There one can learn (at a glance) about everything from Granger hoedowns and 4H shows to fundraising dinners. 

It was the latter which got my hopes up (and my heart rate going) when I espied an open invitation from Ducks Unlimited to attend their Annual Fundraising Dinner. 

Since I am an avowed fan of ducks (dead or alive), such evoked a Pavlov-like reaction as I salivated over signage, envisioning a banquet room virtually packed with duck dinners and the hopeful vision of ‘all you can eat’ attached to the process. Even if the incongruity of proceeds going to preserve duck habitats was negated by the duck dinners I envisioned on the menu (I mean gee: what ELSE could be served up by Ducks Unlimited?? The name kinda says it all, no??)

Sadly, I was mistaken. All that huntin’ and shootin’ for the benefit banquet apparently was limited to more mundane domesticated creatures (chicken and cow, to be specific), while the coveted ducks were obviously reserved for the deep freezers of the Ducks Unlimited membership (…yet another reason for joining up!).

Luckily I uncovered this sad fact in advance of my donation, having eagerly phoned to reserve my space at the event and also having mentioned my mouth-watering anticipation of the Duck Dinner certain to evolve from a Ducks Unlimited donation banquet.

There was a LOT of astounded silence on my part when Ducky Danny had to emphasize (three times) that duck was, mysteriously, NOT on the menu. And Ducky Danny wasn’t feeling so very duckie either when the conversation came to an abrupt end without a definitive answer to my burning questions of (a) if ducks were UNLIMITED, why not spare a few hundred for the annual fundraiser, Scrooge McDuck? and (b) if ducks were being hunted by DU…and not for said fundraiser…WHERE WERE ALL THE BODIES GOING?? I sense a mystery, here; especially as my initial P.I. detective skills were brought to an abrupt halt by the slam of a phone receiver (tip: not mine…)

I suppose I ALSO need to be suspect, then, of this week’s signage, posted by the California Deer Conservation Society (…as though deer needed conserving in our neck ‘o the woods, where they’ve learned some lessons from our local bunnies and are breeding up a virtual storm) touting a Fundraising Dinner for THEIR coffers. Just as certainly there will be NO venison at table, despite the dinner’s sponsorship by the local NRA and despite the over-abundance of local meat, fresh on the hoof. 

Were I President, that would be one of my first orders of business: demand Truth in Signage. Any Ducks Unlimited dinner therefore MUST feature the main course of which the group’s name depends. California Deer, the same. If the Turtle Rescue Society wants to sponsor a dinner, for goodness sake take care of the aging and terminally ill with a huge pot ‘o turtle soup.

Until these changes are instigated, I personally plan on attending NO local fundraising dinners. It’s all chicken, chicken, chicken…neatly belaying the positive-sounding promise of Ducks Unlimited. When the group lives up to its name, then – and only then – will I proffer my donation and eagerly attend.

It is also humbly suggested that simple name changes may result in a higher degree of donation success. For example, to which would you rather donate: Ducks Unlimited or Duck DINNERS Unlimited??

No duckie dinner, no dinero.

I rest my case…

It happens once a year, it takes place at our local rural (one-clerk) post office, and it’s as inevitable as rain that it’ll occur simultaneously to The Peanut Gallery bringing in tubs of the last holiday orders to be mailed before Xmas.

I’m talkin’ Tomato Day … and if you have no clue what THAT means, you likely don’t live rurally. 

A little fun at tomato pickin' time...

It’s a years-old tradition for local Crystal Clarity Tomato Farm to thank their customers with a special jar of home-farmed tomato sauce straight from the fields (uh – the tomatoes, not the sauce) at Xmas. 

All 100 customers. 

You may think 100 customers is a drop in the proverbial profit bucket; but when it comes to Tomato Day – it’s simply overwhelming. 

Picture it: 100 packages lovingly hand-lettered, each holding a single fragile jar of sparkling sauce. 

Each requiring special postal attention and handling. By my calculations, that’s at least 300 minutes of work (…find X, where X = 1 jar x Y [3 minutes].) 

100 packages evoking discussion of local history and color, eccentric customer personalities, satisfying gossip, and hours of delightful reminiscence during the careful handling process. 

TPG invariably walks in with his (comparatively paltry) unexciting two whole tubs of JUST enough mail orders to provoke the “you’ll just have to wait” response from postmistress Roz, who by now is literally knee-deep in Tomato Sauce. 

A little knowledge, however, is a dangerous thing: should any of our customers complain of tomato stains, for example, we’ll know exactly whom (or, more specifically, what) to implicate in the matter: 

Tomato Day holiday festivities at the local Valley Ford Post Office. 

It’s the happening place to be, pre-Xmas! 

Buona sera! 

And – HAPPY TOMATO DAY! 

PS: And, let it be known that there has NEVER been a tomato stain on any of our Xmas shipments – thus supporting the fact that those 300 minutes of postal processing is TIME WELL SPENT. TPG.

Our neck 'o the woods, however rural, holds a shocking regional lack of Xmas spirit. I'm talkin' the glaring lack of reindeer - who evidently reside a LOT further North than California.

My Dad attempted to explain this fact to me; but once I espied my first stag at the tender age of five, all thoughts of "Reindeer R North' went right out the window (or, to my way of thinking - up the chimney...).

What was lacking in antler points was MORE thqan made up by the embodiment of Rudolph himself, apparently oblivious to his celebrity status, munching grass right in the San Francisco city limits out by the golf club's priced expanse of lawns.

I've been 'hooked' on deer ever since; somehow convinced that a sleighful of gifts waits just around the corner from every deer sighting.

Study has revealed

1. Deer are on all continents 'cept Antarctica and Australia: a fact which lends enthusiasm to the ritual opening of Deer Season on all but two continents (...and those have likely handily substituted Opening of Penguin Season and Opening of 'Roo Season, though the sleigh issue remains a special challenge at Xmas).

2. Deer can enjoy a range of habitats from tundra to rainforest.  While "clearing open areas with forests may benefit deer populations", listen and learn from my small hamlet when a new urban land buyer decided to clear two acres of scrub, trees and decades of overgrowth - and Rudolph and his marauding gang rampaged through town gardens hitherto untouched in a wanton thirst for revenge (see: the sleigh doesn't ALWAYS contain gifts!)

3. Also be warned: a deer's nose is 100 times more sensitive than ours.  Translation: adding "Deer-B-Gone" as a parameter defense to one's local garden will ONLY result in midnight revenge; NOT deer poisoning.

4. A deer's four-chambered stomach allows them to digest tough plants. As Carlos found when he bragged to the town that NO DEER would dare touch his prickly cactus plant collection - only to find a wanton midnight Rudolph Raider had struck down the LOT.

What it all boils down to is: Xmas lives in our small hamlet year-round, in the form of Raidin' Rudolph and his Merry Gang.

Our neck 'o the woods may hold no actual Reindeer - but that's simply a matter of semantics.

If you're a gardener here in Cow Country, the deer WILL not only rain on your parade: they will REIGN.

Doesn't it just SLEIGH you?

Happy holidays from The Back 40!

Here in Cow Country, strays are a fact of life (…and I’m not talkin’ cattle, either!).

...Say it loud: I'm feral and I'm PROUD!

The Peanut Gallery hates stray kitties with a passion, claiming the “little buggers decimate the songbird population and are a major cause of said demise.” While admittedly there are far fewer singing birds than back in 1988 when we acquired the Palatial Estates, it’s certainly NOT for lack of birdseed – or due to an overabundance of hungry feral kitties who have finally honed the skill of bringing down the ubiquitous songbird on the wing.

Nope, I’m talking the real neighborhood thief in the matter: Mr. Jay. Who benefits the most from said birdseed applications, effectively making it a fact that we are FEEDING THE ENEMY, here.

But I digress …. TPG insists the decline rests solely on the feral cat population and until a few days ago was militant about chasing any kitties off the property (…and annoyed that since I befriend them, they in effect circle around the devil to get to my “traitorous” loving heart ).

TPG’s attitude changed a few days ago when he espied Puddy Tat making off with yet another garden denizen, Mr. Gopher.

...brave soldier survives a Gopher Battle....

This enterprising rodent has a stranglehold on our entire town. Uh – I’m not talking one rodent – I’m talking about a million, staging clever coups on evolving gardens with midnight raids and skillsets that include sucking a 14-year-old fig tree down a 2-inch hidey hole piece by piece and likely Googling fig recipes in their living rooms.

Bill was all for chasing off Puddy Tat when he espied the results of his successful morning hunt and had a sudden change of heart.

But after nearly a decade of playing Chase ‘Em Cat, TPG’s reputation in the feline world is, sadly, tarnished forever. Puddy Tat ignored the incessant (and likely inaccurate) meowing from The Peanut Gallery to circle gingerly around said Grouchy Giant and dropped his prize at MY feet for inspection, then proceeded to (“annoyingly”, TPG stated) roll over on his back for a quick rub from his favored human before carefully picking up his rodent dinner and trotting away with nary a glance at the now-jealous TPG (…any of you who believe a man is only inspired to insane jealousy by another member of the human species: just add ‘or cat’ to the mix.)

So for the past few days TPG has been roaming the Back 40 meowing, trying to ATTRACT the very ferals he’s been chasing away since 1988 in the hopes of fostering an Anti-Gopher Counterstrike among his new allies. I looked out the back window towards dusk to see about 40 gleaming eyes peering out from the tree line eyeing the enemy as he meowed his way attractively along the neighbor’s fence line.

Then I fielded a call from aforementioned worried neighbor who gingerly postulated the theory that there were actually VERY  GOOD assisted living facilities in our very area for those who struggled with dementia in their golden years.

I REALLY need to get a video cam going. The sight of TPG skulking along the fence line meowing at the top of his lungs is simply too priceless for words.

All I can say is: next year SOMEBODY around here is getting’ a HUGE CAT COSTUME for Halloween – to be used year-round.

I taught I taw a puddie tat…I DO, I DO see a puddie tat!

….as we drove up our long driveway.

The Peanut Gallery: LOOK at that – it’s simply AMAZING.

Moi (‘cause obviously he’s referring to the fact that my pink flamingo flock looks especially vibrant and remarkable now that the green foliage of his front walkway has died back enough to look like said flamingos are CONSUMING HIS GARDEN): Yeah, totally AWESOME!

Moi, agreeably (thinking SOMEBODY HAS FINALLY SEEN THE LIGHT. The Pink Flamingo Light, that is…): There’s something about dark days that make bright color just POP.

TPG (warming to his subject): NOBODY ELSE in the neighborhood has this!

Moi (since the term ‘this’ obviously embraces the entire flock): Nope, nobody does! If they all came up here, they would be DYING OF ENVY.

TPG: So unique, so special….

Moi (receiving the first hint that SOMEBODY HAS TAKEN AN UNEXPECTED TURN AROUND THE BEND, here. ‘Cause special as they are, perhaps TPG isn’t aware there is a Pink Flamingo Factory churning out about 6,000 clones a day somewhere in Kansas….making these sukkahs somewhat less than actually “unique”…): They’re special, all right.

TPG (catching the phrasing): “They?” You mean IT, don’t you?

Moi: I do believe ‘they’ applies, if there’s more than one. And this is why I’m an English major.

TPG (confused): But there isn’t more than one!

Moi (confidently, having aced calculus decades ago, obviously for just this purpose): I counted 10 a few days ago.

TPG: Obviously there’s ONLY ONE….which is why it’s so miraculous….how the heck do you get ten out of ONE?

Me: New math. And calculus in hi school.

TPG: I’m sorry: by any math in existence you can’t get TEN out of ONE.

Moi: What are you TALKING about? (And FYI: somebody didn’t pass their human reproduction course decades ago…it’s sad, and it shows.)

TPG: That lovely little daffodil that poked its unseasonal head up just today – in DECEMBER! What are YOU talkin’ about?

Moi (now huffy, realizing my flock’s value is STILL UNRECOGNIZED): NEVER MIND….

(And, guys, just a tip: when you hear ‘never mind’ (or its handy companion ‘whatever’), just know … somehow, you gots yourself in trouble.

Consider this a SEE’S MOMENT and break out the heavy artillery….)

The National Weather Service predicted a deluge for our area, so I was not surprised to wake up to clouds.

Something else did amaze, however: upon gazing upon our palatial gardens, it was to observe the ultimate pop-up in the guise of Mr. Gopher, a well-known local resident famous for his superrodent ability to pull an entire 20-year-old fig tree down into his hidey hole piece by piece over a month’s time.

Now, soft: at this moment in time the Weather Service’s rain prediction had not yet come to pass. Skies were cloudy and threatening but the torrential downpours reminiscent of the Days of Ark had not yet begun.

Yet somehow Mr. Gopher had been made aware of the pending doom (….given the fig tree decibel, there’s probably a hand-crank radio down there in his living room) and decided to ‘close the door’, frantically pulling dirt over his entranceway in a hasty attempt to forestall the inevitable.

When next I looked, there was NO evidence of his front door.

10 minutes later the skies opened up to reveal the awful truth: SOMEBODY had placed their front door directly under the gutter, which at this point was happily overflowing in an effort to fill prediction beyond its wildest weather dreams. Talk about bad feng shui!!!

  
Lesson One: Placement of the Front Door

am sure somebody else, unseen, was stewing in his living room as a lake formed over his front door, because suddenly – much as in the manner of a plugged toilet plungered to freedom – a whirlpool opened up and ALL the water went swirling merrily down his front entryway, now exposed for what it was: a drain.

A little later I saw Mr. Gopher at the other end of the garden ruefully surveying matters. Obviously SOMEBODY had picked the wrong location for his estate during the summer dry season.

From Eden to Hell...in 60 seconds flat!

And a little later I saw a furred denizen leap into the huge drainage pipe that led from just outside the garden up the wall to the gutters: a pipe obviously plugged with leaves despite my usual autumn cleaning pre-storm.

And so it was that I informed The Peanut Gallery that there was clearly NO NEED to ascend to the roofline to unplug the gutter drains: somebody with far more invested in his real estate choice was in the process of undertaking the entire messy unplugging job for us.

Thus neatly proving that when one door closes, the other opens … turning a former garden demon into an Unplugger Angel.

  

The biggest challenge to country living can be ‘name that creature’. Domestic or wild. 

I’m talking the unseen but vocal night critters, those which successfully devastated our koi pond multiple times whilst showing neither feather nor fur, and a few unexpected visitors.

I developed a handy animal naming system which serves equally well for all outdoor residents.

To wit:

When I observed the unlikely (but right-before-my-very-eyes) scenario of a flat mop in the Back 40 flopping its way happily in the fields and ran screaming to The Peanut Gallery that magic was, indeed, alive and a witches’ broom was BEING MADE up there. Even HE, Mr. Non-Believer in Magic, ran at lightning speed up to the Back 40 on that one and became equally puzzled (and semi-convinced in Magic) before scientific consultation (i.e.Google) concluded it was a rare California Badger scouring the ground up there. “His name,” I announced authoritatively, “is Fred.”

A Field of Freds...OBVIOUSLY!

It was an approach which served consistent purpose as Fred happily flopped the pasture for months before he was observed flattened on the highway a few miles away (as TPG announced, badgers roam for miles and ours paid for his wanderlust with too-close pavement inspection) – and when a month or so later another mop was observed, “Fred has returned.”

The next on the list of uninvited guests was rather rude, helping himself to koi pond residents before wantonly appearing in full feather on the back deck with a flurry of wings and a broad-daylight attitude that invited the sun to shine as it would: this perp had NO SHAME and was not about to slink around the pond at midnight committing his dastardly culinary crimes without benefit of light. Yup, Mr. Heron also earned the name Fred as he apparently decided to settle in for the duration of koi life, until The Peanut Gallery’s astute wildlife observation pointed out that Fred only fished from the open end of the deck’s pon, so a few well-placed deck furniture foiled that plot (he hated going under the shaded trellis – TPG said because herons want to feel free to fly away. Even if a bad attitude prevents such flight. I know the feeling!)

Fred the Heron made several more appearances, but it was only to glare balefully at the feng shui of the furniture’s new arrangement, obviously plotting his revenge on Orchard Supply Hardware.

CAUGHT! SOME unexpected guests just HAVE to hit the table before even saying "hello'"!

We never quite figgered out how the “rare, elusive” California badger happened upon our palatial estates – nor why Fred the Heron felt the need to leave his multitude of nearby ponds miles away to visit a rural farming community only noted for potatoes and cows – not water. Must be Magic….

Speakin’ of cows – and magic -  though: The Peanut Gallery is the originally Cow Whisperer. A party mooing contest (unbeknownst to the farmer hosting the 40 acres behind us – and yes, us urban transplants DO come up with the strangest games) confirmed that The Cow Whisperer not only resides here, but can bring an entire Field of Freds racing across the pasture to investigate the wayward romancer.

Call ‘em heads, herds, badgers or herons as you well – I call ‘em Fred(s).

They are ALL glorious reminders of why we live in the country. Even if rudeness and magic doth occasionally rear their heads in unexpected places….

It was The Peanut Gallery who scored a win with his ‘alternative science’ premise on this one. 

Factoid #1: Tom Turkey (or Jake) appeared on our property suddenly, out of season and all alone. It’s been 3 months from initial appearance and Tom (Jake) has gotten quite content with our dogless lot…so much so that we now hear the pitterpatter of his feet tromping across our roof at night as he settles down for a lonely vigil atop the highest peak of our Chateau. Which just so happens to be directly ABOVE our bedroom window.

Factoid #2: Herbert Heron appeared a little after this and was first observed committing petty theft in the backyard koi pond. His ongoing efforts to resist imprisonment have resulted in an apparent wanton act of permanent residency in the back trees on our property; there best to observe his pond prey in action.                                                                                    

Factoid #3: Nighttime’s usual nocturnal rural noises have been replaced by the elusive and never-seen Mr. Squawk, along with Mr. Sigh’s responses: both competing with (and yea even seemingly answering) Mr. Owl’s hoots.

ERGO:

The theory postulated by The Peanut Gallery this morning involves a forbidden love evolving from two lost birds far from their flocks and usual community collections. It’s a theory apparently supported by fact, as last night Squawk and Sigh sounded side-by-side in apparent harmony.

Forbidden Love.

It’s what’s happening in the Back 40, this year.

Or, up on the roof….

"Romeo, Romeo, Whereforeartthou Romeo?

Deny thy feathers and refuse thy name..."

Most small towns have a social club. Here in our neck of the woods it’s the Ladies of Bloomfield. Which obviously excludes men and wildlife.

I propose a more inclusive rural town club. I’m calling it The Super Raccoon Club.

Unlike the Ladies, we won’t conduct high tea indoors on scented tablecloths with teacups you can only slip your pinkie into.

Nope, The Super Raccoon Club will meet – always – outdoors, by the pond. So we can WASH our food in nature’s own running waters (um – more honestly, in the Donovan Fish Pond…).

The Ladies recently held a Mad Hatter Tea. Attendees sported their finest high-fashion hats.

Much in the manner of Ralph Cramden, The Super Raccoon Club will defy fashion with – of course – raccoon hats sporting long, twirlable tails.

The Ladies’ teas offer small sandwiches without crusts, finger-sized desserts, and fragile china pots of tea.

OUR teas will consist of: small fishes (whole), troughs of chili, and still waters … which shall run deep.

The Ladies’ underlying motto seems to run along the lines of being of service.

OUR motto will be “serve yourself”. As such, OUR buffets will be self-serve, all-you-can eat affairs.

The Ladies strive to clean up da town.

WE will strive to get down ‘n dirty in the garbage for those gems SOME people wantonly toss out. Since United Can Carriers comes at the crack ‘o dawn, don’t get excited if you hear a little can rustling at 5AM.

It’s just The Super Raccoon Club, doing what we do best.

An article in today's newspaper pointed out that apparently (and surprisingly) Utah (the state of) is suffering from an overabundance of moose.

Silly me: I pictured the entire state as a kind of desert with a few amazing rock formation parks called Bryce and Zion - with surely nothing much 'extra' to trade. But apparently, faced with a sudden plethora of moose, Utah opted to put out the word about a possible trade opportunity involving said largess.

Myself, I have 10 chickens up for grabs.

Actually, they live nextdoor.

Specifically, we're talkin' ALL ROOSTERS: a fact that my urban-transplant neighbor only discovered when, after a year of incessant crowing, eggs were NOT forthcoming.

Utah, MY offer is 'catch 'n carry'. Might I presume the same could be said of your Utah Moose Exchange Program?

Or, given their size, is moose catchin' and carryin' INCLUDED in the trade arrangement?

Nonetheless - I have 10 healthy non-hens to offer up. The potential for a positive return on THIS exchange ONLY requires an addition 10 hens on Utah's part, and away you go.

What do I want with a moose, might you ask??

Well, DUH - I'll be the ONLY one in my rural community to boast of a moose in The Back 40.  Because there are NO mooses anywhere near where I live!

And, I'm chargin' admission....

So this idea should offer inspiration to ALL rural inhabitants: whether you harbor 'pests' or suddenly-unwanted domestics, there is ALWAYS a healthy trade opportunity on the horizon. 

Myself, I think 10 chickens for 1 moose is MORE THAN FAIR...

ONE of these....

...for TEN of these:

It's a virtual BARGAIN!

It's been so long since I've heard the pitterpatter of little feets that I forgot about yet another facet of Winter: the too-predictable arrival of the Allied Attic Invasion Forces.

Standard Home Maintenance Manual 101 would have it that ALL one has to do is check for holes at the home's foundation and be certain all crawlspace and attic vents are firmly sealed.

We should be so lucky.

No, our annual non-renters have found some subterranean tunnel that apparently lends to an effective Rat (...or Possum: take your pick) highway under the house, leading handily up the bathroom wall pipes to comfy and spacious attic accommodations.

For all I know (and for all the activity it enjoys each winter), it's paved down (and up) there, with stoplights and In 'n Out Burgers for the millions (sounds like) who enjoy the combo of dry convenience, well-used ingress and egress, and even thoughtful insulation (sprayed in by the landlords) against the elements.

The attic's been all tricked out by Rats R Us.

The Peanut Gallery heard the first pitterpatters that marks this annual migration period and began loudly moaning.

The scurrying stopped momentarily - then came the unmistakable roll-roll-roll sound of a marble being rolled along the attic floor overhead.

Obviously, I pointed out, a bowling alley had been added to the attic attractions this year.

Or perhaps it's a marble tournament.

Either way: between the paving possibility, the dining and dancing at midnight, and now the appearance of a mini-bowling alley up there, I think it's time to move on.

Us, I mean.

Let's face it: the rodent denizens obviously have earmarked our palatial estates for their winter getaway: let that serve as a lesson for us to do the same.

I'm votin' for Hawaii, myself...

I've always loved falsetto singers - those few male singers who can let their voices soar into the soprano range with the effortless throats of a songbird. I think my affection began when listening to Roy Orbison at an early age, marveling that he could effortlessly hit the highest of notes, then return to a throaty male growl without missing a beat.  Years later I was introduced to Hawaiian singers such as Israel K., and again marveled at their unfettered and joyfully soaring voices. I also learned of the castratos of early religious fame who sung in choirs.

But I never thought I would hear falsetto expertly rendered on my own property until The Peanut Gallery (a.k.a. Hubby) decided to avenge my yellowjacket attackers by pour gasoline in their garden hidey-hole and setting them alight.

Now, the thing you need to know about Jackets (besides their ground-nesting capabilities, recently uncovered by Moi when mowing the Back 40) is that they build their abodes with an 'escape hatch' a ways away from their main entrance, 'just in case'.

TPG and I had viewed the same National Geographic and Animal Planet shows but apparently this key fact was lost in the lust for revenge.

TPG carefully chose his time - twilight, then Jackets are sluggish and have mostly returned home for the night - but not his attack attire (a terrycloth bathrobe).

He poured his cocktail of gasoline and oil mix into the Jacket entryway, stepped back, and dropped in a flaming match - and his falsetto song impressed the neighbors 3 acres away as an instant trail of flame zoomed at warp speed between his legs to the back exit of the Jacket next downhill, where the mix has quickly leaked.

Luckily nothing essential caught ablaze, but for a moment Bill was singing the blues and a small cloud of Rear Guard Jackets were humming right along as the rest 'o the nest blazed in a cheerful kind of 'come sit beside me and toast marshmallows' manner.

Providing that it doesn't take castration, Hawaiian heritage, or a rare gene to produce falsetto music.

ANY male can achieve this with a can 'o gas and a well-placed match....

"...with a little group effort, we an LIFT this baby!"

Those who read Robert O’Brien’s book – or saw the movie of the same title – KNOW that Rats of Nimh are super-intelligent lab rats that escaped to wreck havoc on the world, much like an intellectual Willard.

What was left hanging in movie and book was exactly where the Rats of Nimh ultimately wound up.

Well, I’ll tell ya where they wound up. In my barn. AND in the wall between the bathroom and my computer desk (just so they could (a) reach the attic and (b) annoy me with the pitter patter of little feetz.)

No trap will catch ‘em, only one kind of bar bait – the one located furthest from my house – will they touch, and the Rats of Nimh have a breeding cycle set to Overload: basically ya sees one rat, ya know 50 more were created last night and will emerge to conquer the world (our barn, specifically) in approximately two weeks.

What can be done in the face of super-intelligent rats intent on taking over the world? Why, fight fire with fire, of course.

Next time I was in the barn and observed the walls change color as the rats ran for the rafters when the barn door opened, I loudly remarked to myself that the rat population was lookin’ mighty fat and healthy – and just in time for pie season, too.

The scurrying noises halted and for a second complete silence reigned.  I swear I heard a soft intake of breath similar to a low gasp.

The next day’s visit revealed nary a rat to be found – and the house attic and walls were abnormally quiet, too.

A day later I observed the fine folks at Ace Rat and Pest Control’s signature van pull up to our neighbor’s house.

Apparently rats had ‘come from nowhere, virtually overnight’.

No way was I gonna reveal my foolproof super-rat-banishing secret.

After all – my neighbor just might covet a piece of THAT pie…

It’s that time of year again: leaves are falling from the trees in a virtual rainbow of reds, oranges and yellows, the hummingbirds are sucking our feeders dry and tapping on our windows demanding refills every 4 hours in preparation for their annual Winter Migration, and the ‘gotta do before it rains’ projects that have been piling up all summer are suddenly assuming an atmosphere of extreme urgency as said rains could be here any week (though given the absence of the Annual Kitchen Ant Invasion portent, I’m willing to bet the wet will hold off a while).

Our Winterizing list of DIY projects includes:

1.    Stock up on RAID to take advantage of sales ammunition for the Annual Ant Wars of Winter. Usually the four-footers have the inside edge, as they stage their invasion just before said RAID sales take place.

2.    Invest in Rat Potion #9. The ants are closely followed by their larger brethren the rats, who have long held the inside track up our interior bathroom walls from crawlspace under da house to the attic; a route coveted by possums, rats, mice, and likely a host of other denizens we never see ‘cause we (sensibly) don’t climb up there! This year the manufacturer has seen fit to change the tried-and-true formula in their Rat Candy, likely anticipating my first agreement to spring for $50 worth of the ‘bigger buckets’ to stem the growing tide. And our gourmet rats are leaving the offerings untouched. Oh joy. Get out the ’44; it’s huntin’ time down in the ‘ole barn!

3.    Hot Tub: drain and refill. Actually this dreaded project was encouraged not so much by the onslaught of winter (and a deck subsequentially too slippery to navigate) as by water that turned yellow-green and refused any chemical balance. When even the local tree frogs refused to slip in to commit their ritual evening suicide, it was MORE THAN TIME.

4.    Deleaf the gutters. Since Man first built House, this job has been a honeydo non-favorite, especially unpopular around here since our resident yellowjackets discovered they could happily nest in some of the gutters under the leaves, making the entire home  improvement project an exercise in the effectiveness of the life-saving Epipen.

5.    Seal the motorhome. Let’s face it: NOBODY likes to face the midnight specter of their motor home bed flooded by incoming water from gale-force winter storms above. Let alone 2 years in a row. It.Is.TIME.

6.    Paint the old car. You heard me. Now, most would say ‘BRING it to the shop to get it painted’, but being a DIY kinda gal on a low budget with a high imagination, I’m applying the fuschia hood and roof accents MYSELF, with a little help from my friend. Yet another reason to happily own a reliable 20-year-old car with (and I quote) “NO RESALE VALUE”. The sky’s the limit!

7.    Fix the furnace – once and for all. Every year the Furnace Wars heat up (or, in this case, cool down) with the battle starting at the thermostat and culminating each morning in a freezing cold garage shaking wires to jumpstart the sukkah (resisting the urge to take an ax to the gas lines with predictibly unpleasant outcomes). THIS year I believe the battle has already been fought and won over a carbonized igniter. Time will tell – but I swear I hear the Beast snickering evilly in the garage, probably plotting a strike on the coldest night of the year on a holiday weekend devoid of any possibility of a repair person’s shivering appearance. (footnote: EPIC FAIL…)

8.    Pie.

You heard me. It’s the best thing to include on a winterizing shopping list when the battles with ants, rats and furnace have been won, the old car’s been two-tone painted and the motorhome sealed, the hummingbirds have at last quit pestering you for refills and have flown da coop, and you’re sitting in your hot tub listening to the owls hoot.

Pie, made from those apples that fell off your very own tree this summer, frozen for winter enjoyment.

The smell of cinnamon and sugar and apples blends with the thrill of victory and makes winter worthwhile!

I think.

Hand me another slice please; gotta muse on that one!

When you live on acres of land, you get used to mysterious, unsolved deaths.

I’m talkin’ the occasional deer, fox, skunk or possum carcass that serves as the only concrete evidence that yesterday’s Field Day animal celebration got just a leetle out of hand.

The first clue as to the presence of a corpus delecti is the appearance of the Undertakers (a.k.a. vultures), who sit patiently on the treetops waiting for rigor mortus to set in.

Much as those of us over 50 shudder to think that the “bell tolls for thee”, in fact the Undertakers actually have their beady eyes set upon a carcass that isn’t still moving around.

So The Peanut Gallery was sad to note that the only Mrs. Deer he’d seen on the property this year appeared to be Undertaker fodder in the Back 40, barely visible beyond our bedroom window. Sad – but it’s a fact of rural living.

So when TPG arose this morn and opened the blinds, it was to begin his day with an unprecedented miracle.

“Look!” he shouted, pointing.  “The deer has RISEN. It’s a MIRACLE!”

Now, since we’d both observed a solid week of Undertaker activity (and indeed an occasional waft from the impromptu crypt confirmed the sad demise), I was pretty skeptical about this miracle.

A visit to the Back 40 proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the original corpus delectable was still being attended to by a pair of enthusiastic Undertakers who had apparently moved in for the duration.

So how did TPG explain the puzzling and sudden appearance of a deer who looked “exactly” like the deceased, when only ONE deer had been observed all year?

Simple (to my mind).

There’s OBVIOUSLY a Deer Cloning Factory in operation somewhere in the Back 40.

The Undertakers reported the sad event and the Deer Clones quickly produced a suitable replacement from DNA on hand.

Everyone knows it takes a few daze of accelerated growth to produce a suitably-sized replacement; which is why Number Two hadn’t appeared sooner.

As usual, TPG scoffed at my “illogical and scientifically inaccurate” representation of the facts.

I rest my case….

Our raccoons are nocturnal and playful – and we have provided them with an outdoor amusement park.

For years the common perception around The Back 40 is that our raccoons somehow hate our outdoor decorations. Which is why our fishpond plays host to tossed-in outdoor embellishments such as Nile Crocodile (who ordinarily reposes on the bank well away from actual water), FoxyLoxy (a plastic fox who normally sits on a rock overlooking Das Pond), and the floating Fishing-Frog-in-Inner-Tube, who ideally wafts gently on the pond waters with firm grip on his plastic fishing pole.

But after a night of inadvertently hosting the Raccoon Family we always find: FoxyLoxy floating in the water, gamely trying to swim for land; Nile Croc also in the pond (where apparently at least one Masked Bandit believes he BELONGS), and Fishing Frog summarily turned upside down, now trolling the nether regions of the pond muck with his fishin’ pole.

The Peanut Gallery maintains all this activity is malevolent.

I, on the other hand, maintain that the Coon Family is JUST HAVIN’ FUN.

After all – we’ve thoughtfully created an outdoor Amusement Park by scattering toys around das pond, complete with live food for those nimble enough to catch ‘em.

The Coon Family is obviously: dancing, cavorting, throwing toys around, and having a grand ‘ole time.

And the morning’s shambles are, as usual, mere evidences of the festivities of a successful party lasting long into the night.

It's simply a matter of perspective.

  

Battle lines were drawn on August 25^th.  And on Diane’s Calendar of Daze a new holiday was penned in.

Moth Day notes that date in local Bloomfield, California history where tiny clothes and carpet moths erupt from closets and drawers to stage nothing less than an annual coup (properly called a Mini-Invasion).

The rest ‘o the year it can be unequivocally stated that we humans think we have the upper hand – but just when the Upper Hand is being raised for a final Swat Salute to the tune of ‘All Hail to the Chief’, along comes August 25^th: an un-celebratory day of reckoning and Great Hatchings.

And the tune immediately changes to ‘I Fought the Moths and the Moths Won’ (ala Bobby Fuller Four’s classic).

Neither RAID nor swatter nor bug bombs can stem the tide of troopers invading Closet Normandy on Moth Day.

 They come in all sizes from ‘infant’ to ‘petite’; but ‘small’ aptly defines their general countenance.  Add ‘annoyingly’ to the description and there you have it: a full-blown Moth Day experience.

And if this really bugs you – you’re not alone.

The ubiquitous clothes moth prefers moist conditions. So when summer humidity is at its highest … they ride. Or, more accurately, hone in on your favorite dress. The moths are particularly attracted to carpeting or clothing that contains human sweat or spills – they love the moisture. Few fabrics are impervious to the clothes moth’s fashion taste: be it fur, cotton, silk or wool – you’ll find they’ve taste tested pretty much all of ‘em.

They also prefer dim or dark areas – such as, for example, a closet or a linen drawer loaded with TPG’s favorite sweaters and, yes, even tee-shirts. Handmade rugs are particularly alluring because they can crawl underneath the edges and literally eat from the outside in without detection (…there must be some ‘satisfaction’ element to those miniscule fiber-driven brain cells, to prefer ‘handmade’ over ‘store-bought’. Go figger: gourmet-minded moths with needle-sized brains locked on ‘on’….)

Yes, you can buy specific traps, poisons, or even resort to dry-cleaning your entire closet to remove the mothly allure of moisture. And you can vacuum them out of the carpet – also an effective pest control.

But fight as you might, once Moth Day hits, even your best offensive is already an epic failure. Ask me how I know.

Moth Day: just another unique small town celebration, now achieving immortality status via Diane’s Calendar of Small Town Daze.

When answering queries from non-English language speakers about the oddities of our language, nothing stymies the process more than plural references – particularly when pertaining to animals.

A typical day on the farm, where Mexican workers diligently face work and language issues alike, illustrates all…

Juan: Senora! The sheeps are escaped!

Me (ever helpful): Sheep. The sheep have escaped….without the ‘s’.

One Sheep...

    Two Sheep....

Next day:

Juan: Senora! The pig is loose!

Me: PIGS. The PIGS are loose. WITH the ‘S’.

Next Day:

Juan (less confidently, still stewing about the pigs, apparently): Lady, the running pork got out again.

(Obviously he’s found a way to circumvent the entire ‘S’ question. Sorry dude: won’t work….:)

Me: RUNNING PORKS. WITH the ‘s’. Actually, it’s still PIGS – but I like your description better. Let’s round ‘em up!

Next crisis:

Juan: The grain has become full of mouses!

Me (sighing): Mice. The mice have gotten into the grain. No ‘becoming’ involved…

Juan (puzzled): Meece?

Me: No, mice.

Juan (thoroughly confused, and now suspecting a rouse on my part): Why ‘sheeps’ then; why not ‘shice’?

(Apparently, SOMEBODY smelled a rat in this conversation....)

Me (issuing disclaimer): Hey – I didn’t INVENT it … I just USE IT!

Juan (resentfully): Why?? Spanish make MUCH more sense.

Me: I know … hey, did you see the neighbors’ new geese?

Juan (superiorly): GOOSES. Yes, I saw neighbors’ new GOOSES. They got through fence and chased our sheeps. And went after mouses, too. Running porks not afraid, though. 

So much for English…hey, if God wanted me to ‘splain English, I’d have been born an English teacher. That’s why I’m a writer. I do much better on paper…

The rural world has enough issues to describe without rampaging sheeps, running porks, gooses, and mousies running off with the English language! 

The human world subscribes to the adage “if you build it they will come”, but the Hummer world subscribes to “if you leave it undefended they will come” – and by ‘they’, we’re talking other hummingbirds (not the military vehicle which adopts the same attitude).

We rural dwellers who mistakenly believe we are ‘owners’ of property know, all too well, about Hummingbird Wars. They occur right here, outside our very windows and on our very turf – literally under our noses - and involve swordfights, high-speed chases, and standoffs: all the elements of war conducted right outside the kitchen window.

The opening shot is subtle … and nearly invisible, to those not in the ‘know’. A barrage of ‘chittering’ conducted from a local tree (conveniently located only a few feet away from the coveted flower or feeder) alerts invading perps that THIS territory HAS been claimed.

Ignore this chittering warning and the second round of defense is revealed: a high-speed humming rush at the invader. It’s akin to a bullet speeding by: you can feel the brush of death on your cheek, but ya never saw it coming!

One of two events then transpires: either the perp flees, closely followed by a B-52 bomber hot on his tail; or a swordfight ensues.

You simply haven’t lived until you’ve seen two Hummers going at it beak to beak. 

  

“En guarde, interloper!”

Our Hummers display yet another talent: the ability to not only recognize humans as the source of that red sugary syrup in the hanging feeder; but the ability to GO AND GET ‘EM when said feeders are wantonly allowed to get too low.

My friend didn’t believe this (indeed, there IS such a sin as anthropomorphism: “…the attribution of human characteristics to other animals, non-living things, phenomenon….”),  but we definitely weren’t guilty in this case, as she experienced when a fading feeder prompted a small hoover in front of our living room window and a quick beak tap on the glass, followed by a short flight to point out the feeder in question to the obviously brain-dead TV-watchers behind the window. Clearly, we were once again lacking in Hummer services – and the front lines were letting us know before an army of indignant swordfighters descended!

The Peanut Gallery scoffed at my observations – until a swordfight took place quite literally under his nose. I gather the Hummers considered TPG large enough to hide behind (and fly around) in the midst of quite a jolly battle.

And his morning newspaper was quite neatly interrupted by repeated tapping on the front window next to his chair and the spectre of an Unhappy Hummer flying back and forth from window to empty feeder. The message was clear: “Look, you lazy oaf – birds are STARVING while you browse the morning news!”

A further point about emptiness was made when Harry Hummer landed on the feeder, looked sadly at less than inch of red fluid left, and blew a few tiny bubbles into the jar to demonstrate the lack of volume within.

I can’t think of ANY other small bird or beast which is as entertaining!

Our friend Elfie from Germany took the cake in Hummingbird observation, though. Apparently they don’t have hummers in her area of Germany (…not the bird, anyways…)

On a camping trip with her husband she bravely climbed the hill alone to the woman’s bathrooms, only to come flying down, screaming, a short time later: “You have the BIGGEST MOSQUITOES in your country!”

You got it.

Little did she know, OUR ‘big mosquitoes’ fence in their spare time, and tap their humans for free refills!

Living rurally, I have seen MORE than a few varieties of: cow, goat, sheep, rooster…enough to have become jaded on the topic of ‘strange rural sightings’. Unless it’s comin’ from Mars, I’m just not likely to be impressed!

Until the sudden arrival of Jet-Puff’s new Marshmallow Farm down the road from us. 

Oh, you doubt???

A picture says 1,000 words (…two say even more…):

 Jet Puffs Grown’ in the field - like white Spring Giant Pumpkins! 

These giant jet-puffed babies appeared suddenly in April – literally overnight. So it’s equally obvious that they either (a) hatched [via alien intervention] or (b) were imported (and perhaps jet-dropped by an Army Auxiliary lookin’ to practice airdrop maneuvers in a local setting?)

 (…makes me long for the HOT CHOCOLATE FARM…) 

Another notable note: they are GIANT: certainly no human-sized hot chocolate could take on one of THESE 15-foot babies. Ergo: they must be MARSHMALLOW MOTHERS. Yes, they are obviously out there popping out Baby Jets for the stuff we so handily discover on our supermarket shelves and use to grace the tops of our hot chocolate….

Some further Jet-Puffed commentary/observations:

1.    Puff tippin’ might become rampant among teens if these Mothers are left out in the field unattended. Beware!

2.    JetPuff farmin’ must be a piece of cake. I mean, think on it: no feeding, no caring – and marshmallows are well known for being fluffy, melt-in-your mouth bits of happiness. Which totally eliminates the mooing, crowing, baaing and other potentially annoying vocalizations experienced on surrounding farms.

As usual truth is MUCH more boring than (apparent) reality: research indicates that farmers now “protect hay in plastic” to shield it from hazards such as wind and rain. (Unheralded is the effect of unregulated cow lips on said hay bales [should cows escape from their pastures] and also unmentioned in the equation is the fact that hay must’ve gained a LOT in value this year; ‘cause Jet Puffs have NOT appeared in local fields here  (where rain seldom happens at harvest time) in prior years. I am sure Tons ‘O Fun Plastic Sheeting must be ECSTATIC about the results of their Save the Hay marketing program this year…

A personally-conducted survey of farms to the North of my county (which do get much more rain) indicates that Jet Puffs have LONG been a feature; but here? There is no explanation of their sudden appearance here in Sonoma County – unless you refer to my opening theories, above (re: aliens or Army involvement).

And, ultimately - it all seems like fluff to me….

Many people believe sheep are inherently stupid.  Farmers, for example, will readily recount numerous supportive examples.

But Osiris was different.

Perhaps it was because he was hand-reared; or maybe a god of the underworld was truly reborn in his woolly little coat. Whichever: Osiris sported his name long before we inherited him and his three lovely ladies. All were complimentary additions to our 2.5 acres and house purchase, but those innocent eyes and the dumb-sounding limited ‘Language of Baa’ belied a truly clever, evil heart (as we were soon to discover the hard way.)

We fed Osiris daily (even though he theoretically had 2.5 acres of grazing material at hoof.)  He loved eating plums from our hands; but as the seasoned and gristly Farmer Jones (of the neighboring pasture) observed wisely: “Sheep is dumb. They’ll ‘et almost anything. No need to waste yr good plums on the likes of ‘em.”  I took the hint and Farmer Jones succumbed to a beer and several bags of plums, promising to ‘watch over the place’ as we planned our first two-week getaway since new home ownership.

Funny how sometimes you can smell trouble a mile away.  Or perhaps it was the unusual glare of the neighbors when we came home, or the lack of usually-friendly waves (um – was that a wave, or The Finger?  Naw – everyone in our hamlet had been more than friendly two weeks ago – and we’d been gone, so there wasn’t enough time to antagonize anyone, much less an entire town.)

The answering machine message from Farmer Jones was matter-of-fact and yielded the first clue.

“Yr sheep,” he opened, “been gettin’ out and ‘et up half the gardens in town.”

We raced to the window only to observe the usual pastoral scene: four sheep grazing peacefully in the Back 40 opposite our bedroom.

The Peanut Gallery walked the fence lines and determined there were NO breaks; and so I called Farmer Jones to verify that the perps could not be ours: everyone knows sheep can’t unlock and relock gates, and our teeny flock most certainly resided safely behind bars – as they had when we’d left town.

But Farmer Jones was adamant – as was Mrs. McGillicutty next door, a Mrs. Markle (whom we had yet to officially meet – but her disembodied phone voice definitely held an unpleasant edge as she described a wanton midnight raid on her organic veggies), and the abrasive Mr. Shorts, who opened his message with talk of his NRA membership and the inherent rights of all Americans to not only bear arms, but shoot (and perhaps even consume!) midnight trespassers in wool coats. Apparently our unlisted phone number had been making the rounds of the town, compliments of the sometimes-too-friendly Farmer Jones.

Visits to the message-leavers (once I gleaned actual addresses from Farmer Jones, as we had yet to actually MEET AND GREET any neighbors) produced the uniform observation that positive i.d. of the perps was verified by a committee of insomniac eyewitnesses-turned-vigilantes. And uncovered the sordid truth: that apparently the perps could be quickly fingered because Osiris had a long-standing reputation around town as an expert jail breaker.

Puzzled, TPG again ‘walked the line’ and returned to report NO breaks in the fences.

If it’s one thing I know well (from my voluminous mystery novel reading), it’s that a successful perp WILL return to the scene of his crime – to gloat, if not to repeat the (easy) sin.

We’d been back a week when TPG was awakened at midnight by loud, overconfident (and suspiciously joyful) baaing. Having already formulated his dragnet, he had only to grab a flashlight and leap into clothes to embark on a private investigation while I slept like a baby (I’d been up late again … counting sheep…)

Under the light of the moon he observed the impossible: our ‘sheep proof’ fence went in back of the sheep barn, around a fallen cypress, and continued into the 2.5 acre horizon.  Emerging from the cypress like woolly white ghosts led by The Devil Himself was a perp and three sidekicks who struggled under and through a hitherto-unknown fence break almost directly beneath the fallen cypress.

Unwilling to risk a rambunctious roundup on gopher-hole-pocketed fields at midnight, he watched helplessly as Osiris carefully led his gang of girls wantonly down our driveway, ignoring hissed warnings of future punishment in favor of a personal inspection of Mrs. Field’s new gladiola beds.

The next morn as TPG excitedly revealed the results of his investigation, I looked out the window and advised gently that he’d obviously had a sheepmare: all four sheep could be seen in our pasture, sitting around burping (…TPG said they were ‘chewing cud’ – but I knew better!)

Since it was obviously impossible (“…sheep are too stoopid…”) for them to return unassisted, ‘twas he who was obviously (and I quote) “nuts.”

I made him investigate the matter more closely and he returned pale and wild-eyed, his faith in his ‘summers on a farm in Vermont, so I know all about the habits of sheep and cows’ shaken.

The cypress had fallen, Farmer Jones later informed us, several years ago.  It had collapsed a portion of the fence, but at the time an inspection had ascertained that the huge tree effectively formed a barrier “no sheep could penetrate”, so no fence rebuild (or tree removal) was deemed necessary.

What wasn’t entered into the equation was two years of stealthy sheep struggles to widen a tiny gap between tree and fence – and the effects of waaay two much time on one’s hooves.  Copious amounts of wool attached to the now-sheep-sized hole told the story: our “stoopid sheep” Osiris had systematically widened his escape hatch over a period of years of patient unconnect-the-dots, led his ladies on regular raids of the town’s gardens, then led them back, satiated, so at dawn they could be observed innocently burping the day away on Mrs. Fields’ prize-winning glads, Mrs. Markle’s zucchini, and other dietary supplements to boring old grass.

The fence was fixed and a town apology was issued by way of mailbox flyer sporting a photo of a slyly smiling (he still had his teeth at the ripe old age of ten) Osiris and the caption: “Perp Apprehended/Town finally SAFE.”

And you know what?

Nobody believed us!

We City Slickers must’ve left the gate open, or unlocked.

‘Cause everyone knows sheep are stoopid…. 

"Yeah, you just go on believing that while I eat your Glads!"

We have ‘natural undertakers’ here in Cow Country: a voluntary clean-up crew that appears miraculously, with no phone call required, to provide nearly-instantaneous free pick-up services to those in need (or dead). In fact, it’s almost frightening how quickly the Undertakers instinctively know when their services are required. It’s like they have culinary ESP.

No, I’m not talkin’ the Department of Public Works or even Smart ‘n Final (…a local grocery chain which I believed obviously advertised a mortuary until one day a friend explained why the place was always SO BUSY…).

I’m talkin’ vultures.

Photo by Dmitri Markine Photography, www.dmitrimarkine.com  

Here in Cow Country we have turkey vultures (only). One size fits all. Florida’s truly blessed to have both black and turkey vultures (…actually, I’m not sure my elderly mother-in-law views these dual vultures as a ‘blessing’, necessarily). And in Africa, they have African White-Backed, Bearded, Cape and Hooded vultures, amongst others. An over-abundance, actually, if you ask me. (What can I say: it’s like a party invitation from Death: die, and they will come.)

Our turkey vultures aren’t just offering altruistic clean-up services either. Over the years they have been accused of neatly bringing down power lines in their ongoing efforts to mimic the casual wire-sitting postures of birds less bulky than they (i.e. hawks, owls, crows and on down the bird line). (Note: The Peanut Gallery has the same issues when he attempts to translate The Barkolounger Position into a non-recliner chair in anyone else’s house ‘cept his own – which is why he hates leaving home, these days). In fact, this phenomenon has become such a rural plague that an Anti-Vulture Movement sprang up amongst the local dissidents around our small town, with farmers laying in wait with shotguns, united in the effort to (1) legally Bring Something Down and (2) Protect the Grid.

 This latter thought was inspired by Actual Events when my newly-60-year-old friend hosted his own birthday celebration, only to have the party ‘crashed’ by a complimentary contingent of some 5 vultures who happily settled on the dead snag outside his window and, in full view of the celebrants, commenced to roost and too-obviously ponder upon the possibility of 60 being the last viable day in SOMEBODY’S life. (They were a HIT. Especially when the human contingent broke into a spontaneous segue into the musical ditty ‘Six Feet Under’ after proffering the traditional birthday song to an increasingly sullen birthday boy intent on getting out his shotgun and making short work of the party crashers.)

Our local Undertakers are actually miracle workers. Accidentally smack Mr. Possum on the main road when his quick quest for a snack directly conflicts with one’s desire to get home before Nature Calls and you’ll find any guilty evidence virtually abolished by mid-morning the next day. (All you have to do is keep your Peanut Gallery from seeing the furry evidence festooned on your front bumper and in true Sherlock fashion, connecting that to the corpus delecti currently under Undertaker disassembly out on Mill Street).

(Personally I questioned the legality of the testosterone-driven urge to ‘Bring Something Down’ and was quite confused about why griddles required protection until SOMEBODY around here pointed out the errors of my thinking. Well, EXCUSE ME: to my way of thinking, Grid Protection more than falls into “services automatically included” in Pacific Gas and Electric Company's monthly utility bill…. )

No matter the interpretative challenges involved, personally I admire our country’s natural Undertakers, believe the National Bird should have been the Vulture (…a choice which would’ve so aptly fit the political temperament of modern times – no matter WHICH party we’re talkin’ about), and also maintain that vulture flocks should serve as THE rental of choice for birthday parties for the over-50 crowd, rivaling the Bouncy Houses of youth.

 Entire deer have been known to vanish under the direction of five Undertakers in the Back 40 in a mere two days’ time.

And as a side note: it’s amazing how a hypochondriac’s litany of possibly fatal ailments vanishes immediately when The Undertakers show up for a personal inspection. I’ve never seen The Peanut Gallery so lively as when that deer in the Back 40 was being disassembled. His health returned for virtually weeks before the ‘possibly life-threatening’ ailments began to creep back onto the ‘honeydew’ list as reasons for hitting the barky lounger versus the gardening chores.

It all neatly adds to the Undertakers’ multifaceted skills as a cleanup service, a party surprise for those over 50, and a kick-in-the-pants wake-up call to better health for those inclined to muse on the darker possibilities of aches and pains.

No other city employee can claim so many diverse talents on a single job app – and best of all, they work for FREE.

Or perhaps, for donations.

The Vulture: More Regal Than the Eagle??

It’s a lovely day – the kind of day after a rain when the early spring sun breaks forth through clouds of winter darkness and everything looks hyperlight bright.

A countryside joyride around here brings no end of joyful observations, possibilities – and deeper thinking. As hubby Bill discovered a few days ago.

Me: Aaaahhhhh – stop RIGHT HERE!

Bill (comes to a screeching halt in front of a farm we occasionally pass) WHAT???

Me (longingly): I just want to look at my horsie again.

Bill: We don’t HAVE a horsie.

Moi: Sure, we do. See that lovely little brown Shetland with the dusky mane?

Bill: Yup – and it isn’t our horsie.

Me (mysteriously): I have named him; thus he is ours.

Bill: We own no horsies. Never have, never will. Can I drive on, now?

Me (longingly, adoringly): I have named him after the famous Milne classic.

Bill: You are calling him Winnie-the-Pooh? That’s a BEAR’s name.

Me (haughtily): Depends on your version of spell-check. In my book it’s a much classier HORSIE NAME.

Bill: ???

Me (spelling carefully, as to a small child): Whinny-the-Poo.

It’s a lovely day – the kind of day after a rain when the early spring sun breaks forth through clouds of winter darkness. My world glows hyperlight bright. 

Too bad SOMEBODY then proceeds to drive waay 2 fast to enjoy it, muttering something under his breath that sounds confusingly like “…I wonder if is there an insane asylum in this county, and if they take drop-in contributions??” 

All I can say is: A joyride in the country around here brings no end of lovely observations. 

And deeper appreciations. 

Out here in Cow Country there are: melodious moos, crazy clucking, lots of baa humbug from the sheep contingent, and much manure for thought.

Cementing all this country atmosphere together is manure.  Plain and simple: anyone with a voice in the matter produces manure.

What wasn’t revealed in the pre-homeownership Declarations and Disclosure paperwork was the fact that most farms around us save up a barnload’s worth of manure per season, then add a few embellishments to produce liquid fertilizer, spread over the fields three times a year to enrich soil and scare away city slickers sniffing around at rural investment opportunities.

The first portent of olfactory doom arrives with a rumble as the ‘Poop Truck’ creaks and leaks its way up our narrow county roads hosing farm fields with liquid gold.

 And, be advised: pass da truck with caution. Ask me how I know. 

Also be advised: the stuff sticks like Superglue, and a standard run through the “touchless” car wash doesn’t BEGIN to address the issue. And if you opt for the car wash that employs real humans, be prepared to tip heavily (…also be prepared for ALL the workers to go on break simultaneously once they catch a whiff of what’s pullin’ up from the Back 40….)

The second phenomenon observed at these tri-annual events is the sudden explosion of the fly population as a result of this largess, approximately a week after Field Day.

I’m not talkin’ about a few errant buzzers, either: I’m talkin’ a full-scale invasion; the likes of which have not been seen since the rat-loving horror flick Willard hit the screens. I’m talking the “Look, the porch screen turned black overnight… no, wait, it’s FLIES!” phenomenon that has the postman throwing our mail at our house in lieu of his usual personal delivery at the door so he won’t have to face the possibly-man-eating Hoard of the Flies.

Of course, Ace Hardware is happy with the outcome: forewarned of the blessed event, they have thoughtfully stocked up on everything from Raid to swatters and flypaper: all of which is selling like hotcakes during the semi-annual Fly Sale (advertised – of course – via Flyer that Mr. Postman has thrown at the house.)

The smell permeates the entire county, ‘cause mind you: this isn’t just one farm’s clever recycling plan – it’s a synchronized, county-wide manure celebration. A kind of barn dance gone awry, if you will.

So go ahead: enjoy your recent move from City to Country.

But come prepared: it’s not just about hoedowns, livestock auctions, volunteer fire department barbecue fund-raisers, and town potlucks hosting Peyton Place overtones.

It’s also all about that fresh country air.

Which wouldn’t be as rich without a little manure thrown into the equation to remind us all on what side our beef is buttered.

…no more can I claim scientific accuracy when bandying about the accusation ‘stubborn as a mule’. Not after hubby Bill (a.k.a. The Peanut Gallery) pointed out an amazing article discussing one Black Ruby, the best racing mule in history – and a rural Sonoma County, California  native.

You heard right. ‘Racing’ and ‘mule’ have NEVER been paired, in my book. Indeed, over the decades I’ve cultivated quite a different picture of a mule as being: obstinate, stubborn, plodding, poky, and downright ornery.

“A LOT like you,” observed The Peanut Gallery kindly. And pointedly.

I acquiesce even as I take exception to the ‘plodding and poky’ piece.

But apparently Black Ruby is the Secretariat of mules – and more. ‘More’ because Secretariat never won 57 races, didn’t hold the world record at three distances, and was never named the champion of his breed.

Black Ruby was able, in one fell swoop, to totally change my perspective on mules – and my hitherto lack of affection for them.

I began envisioning our 2.5 acres converted to Diane’s Racing Mule Farm. It would TOTALLY go with my Fainting Goats Project (intended to scare the pants off the UPS driver when he charged up our driveway only to observe an entire field of gentle goats apparently fall over dead at the speed of his passage. Worth.Every.Penny.)

And the Pygmy Elephant, the sight of which was orchestrated to make any aging hippie believe in the lasting power of a ‘flashback effect’ (…same goes for its companion, the Pygmy Hippo).

Instead of mules sedately (and stubbornly) grazing quietly in the back forty, UPS would catch sight of a new breed of RACING MULES tearing up said back forty at the speed of light, undoubtedly preparing for their first winning race.

Wow. I could charge ADMISSION for this.

And it would TOTALLY go with my Jackalope Breeding Pens.

Unfortunately, The Peanut Gallery has NO imagination.

And pointed out that the Pygmy Hippo and Elephant undoubtedly required more acreage and water than a coastal California farmette could provide.

No problem.

I’ll settle for Diane’s Racing Mule, Fainting Goat and Jackalope Breeding Ranch and call it good.

I’m stubborn, that way.

There’s a reason why I wear earplugs to bed in a rural environment (my house sits smack in the middle of 2.5 acres): and that’s the array of nocturnal buddies who all want to ‘friend me’, vocally, at midnight.

Last night The Peanut Gallery (hubby Bill) gave me a series of increasingly urgent pokes ‘till I awake from REM sleep.

“Are you awake??” he hissed.

Yeah, NOW I am…but I had to pull das earplugs out to complete the transition from REM to MAD.

“Listen to THAT!” he continued. Silence lengthened like the bad mood I was suddenly cultivating.

“It was HUGE. It was right outside our window. It started with a low bark, was silent for a few minutes, then repeated its call in a falsetto whistle.”

It’s challenging to mentally assess ALL the possibilities of the local animal kingdom’s nocturnal calls at 1AM – but an initial mental review pretty well eliminated the usual list of suspects: i.e. puma, bobcat, dying wabbit, or possum.

“What should we DO?” hissed TPG. It was then, now fully awake, that I realized the sordid truth.

TPG was wide awake in a manly fit of “defend my territory against invaders.”

Only there was NO CLUE as to this intruder’s identity – and thus, no possibility of making a proper plan for parameter defense.

There was only one thing I COULD do.

I handed him the box of earplugs and kindly advised him to ‘stuff it’ and ‘go to sleep.’

Silence descended (both inside and outside) – but I’m sure I heard The Final Word from TPG before sleep descended upon all:

“That’s right – close your ears to danger. You will be the first eaten.”

I snickered all the way into Slumberland, confident that Harry the Heron or possibly Rocky Raccoon – obviously more concerned about mating than omnivorous midnight cravings – wouldn’t be the cause of my demise that night.

Yeah, go ahead and ‘friend’ me….

Only NOT at midnight. I wear earplugs, and I can’t hear you.

Our hamlet of Bloomfield has held fundraising potlucks for years to support our Community Club’s efforts to maintain the Community Park and other publically-held structures.

And over the years Mrs. Smith’s Apple Pie and other attractors has paled – possibly since Mrs. Smith’s daughter, who hates baking, sees nothing different about Mom’s homemade vs. Sara Lee’s version; and possibly because nobody in our town can eat another bite of Martha’s Mystery Casserole (especially when rumors began to fly about the mysterious decline in the town’s rat population and the hitherto-unidentifiable meat centerfold of said casserole. It’s all a mystery to me…).

So the Community Club has been charged with increasing attendance at these fund-raisers. A combination of new, younger (braver) blood and over-charged imagination has led to several successful embellishments on the common potluck theme, to wit:

1. The annual January winter potluck was transformed into Hawaii with an Aloha Feast. Flowers both donated by Rosie’s Posies and scavenged from local gardens (willingly and unwillingly) transformed the lowly (and boring) Town Hall into a tropical paradise, colorful paper parrots abounded (we had no idea whether parrots occupied Hawaii – but given their colors, they should), and the grand finale of the event was our resident Volunteer Fireman Volker, who cautiously agreed to appear in a Hawaiian skirt and shell bra for the ‘watch Hans dance’ raffle. (I believe some gentle coercion involving food and sex – or the lacks thereof – was applied by Wife Roz). The raffle was so popular that the town netted more money than in 6 years of prior potlucks – especially since Hans posited that this was to be his FIRST AND ONLY cameo (or shell) appearance. Despite the ‘no photos’ rule, a few flashes were espied and thanks to YouTube, Volker’s short-but-sweet performance is forever immortalized.

2. The Spring Fling – also usually a potluck – was transformed to the Mad Hatter’s Tea – complete with a March Hare, a totally Mad Hatter, and a whimsical Alice. I missed this event but suffice it to say – it, too, attracted much of the town, where the typical potluck-nee-Spring-Fling had been losing members since the 1970s (mostly to old age and death).

Among the hitherto-unused ideas posited by SOMEBODY (who shall remain anonymous):

1. Cow and Alien Daze. Tired of those extraterrestrials tipping and snatchin’ cows? This celebration can easily be combined with ‘herd the cows into the barn day’ to demonstrate support for our local farmers. Dress like an alien (green) and hit the fields for the Cow Herding portion. BBQ to follow (compliments of the straggler cows too stubborn to be called in from the Back 40.)

2. WaterWorld. Having just attended a professional water park, I can apply some useful inspiration to a town event involving a water balloon fight, giant water slides (contributed by the Airline Pilots’ Shute Testing Association), and an alluring game of Bikini Strip Poker (well, it WOULD be alluring were not everyone in town well over the age of 50…and shameless…)

3. Karaoke Day. Elvis and Judy Collins wanna-bes exist all over town, as proven by the events at Chateau Moya years ago, when people who obviously had NO BUSINESS carrying a tune re-enacted dances and songs – at frighteningly full volume - from Saturday Night Live. Stayin’ aliiiiivvee….(some of us wished for a quick demise.)

4. Pie-Eating Contest. Everyone wants to believe they can eat as much as they did 40 years ago. The reality: nobody can. Contestants can purchase a pie from the town, consume what they can (which goes down 1 slice per 10 years – leading most ‘o the town only able to consume 3 slices max), then the remainder of the uneaten pie goes up for bid for bigger bucks at the local Teen Center (and be advised: at that age, they can INHALE 1 whole pie per each 4 years of life…)

I see no logical reason why our potlucks are dying, given the wealth of ideas running rampant like diseases through this here town.

‘Cept that Generation T. wants the same ‘ole same ‘ole. Which is why Mrs. Smith’s Pie and Martha’s Mystery Casserole continue to be the main (dubious) draws at these semi-annual potlucks.

And why our town remains (mysteriously) rat-free while farms outside our town limits suffer from lemming-like waves of rats fleeing the sinking ship we fondly call home...

According to my mother, there are two types of worms: (1) men (sometimes – subject to an astute woman’s definition) and (b) ground-dwelling.

She may have had more experience with #1 but I can readily claim FAR more experience with  #2.

I never thought much about worms until gardening-fanatic Bill came along. Worms were worms. They lived in the soil. End of story. The fact that some people thought enough about them to produce actual books on the matter only pointed to obsession and an obvious need for psychotherapy.

But Bill’s single-handled discovery of a Night Crawler in our backyard changed EVERYTHING.

For those not in the know, the Night Crawler has a dark-colored head and a pale ‘tail’ (if you can think of a straight line as having a tail – the Night Crawler at least has the lock on the ‘tail’ piece in Earthworm Country through its clever color change). They are BIG boys. African Night Crawlers can get to 4-8 inches long. (So if you harbor a secret Worm Fear, do NOT visit Africa!) 

The grosser-than-usual worm, The Night Crawler

Apparently on the ‘Net there is not only much information, but much horror:

1. A website devoted to starting a Worm Farm caught The Peanut Gallery’s eye as he browsed topics of “world news and high importance” using his new iPad. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. The man with the bad back and ‘can’t do’ attitude immediately proceeded to dig up about 400 worms (…or maybe 200. It’s a little hard to tell with all those wiggling straight lines).

2. There’s actually an organization called New York Worms devoted to the care and feeding of Night Crawlers. A puzzling statement from The Peanut Gallery that evoked the image of gang colors and alleyway heists before it was pointed out that New York actually consists of more than The Big Apple (which, apparently, is FILLED with worms.) Go figger…I still think gangs are somehow involved and that New York Worms sounds – well – a little slimy.

Night Crawlers are apparently coveted for bait – and are actually for sale. You can even buy them online, with the description including “100% Biodegradable, Lifelike taste and texture.” (Just in case mealtime wasn’t exciting enough and you tire of the mundane in the nightly ‘guess that ingredient’ table trivia session…comes in 3 flavors, too! Awesome…)

Huh. I gots a yardfull. By my estimate, that’s at least $5K crawling around out there, if you factor in a gross of worms per square yard x 2.5 acres and eliminate some yardage under da house.

So perhaps The Peanut Gallery’s latest obsession isn’t absolutely in vain.

I mean, wouldn’t you dig up the garden for a cool $5K?

We could use the money to travel.

Bill sayz we could use the money to BUY MORE WORMS for the farm, as they are ‘good for the soil’. Now we’re moving neatly into Diane’s “soil is soil. They harbor worms. End of story” perception.

Whatever…

It’s that time again. The time between Spring rains winding up and summer heat beginning, when it’s perfect weather for joyridin’.

I’m sure The Peanut Gallery (a.k.a. Hubby) envisions a quiet drive in the country just lookin’ – but that’s not what he’s getting. Oh sure, it’s a drive in the country - but ‘just lookin’ in my book falls somewhere between ennui and death. Lookin’ and plannin’ go hand in hand – and then there’s the delightful ‘talkin’ about possibilities’ piece (…a piece The Peanut Gallery evidently finds ‘threatening’ and I find ‘enlightening’…)

A recent joyride, for example:

1.    Lamb. Now, The Peanut Gallery has a decided opinion on lamb. He likes it ‘on the hoof’ and hates it ‘on the plate’. Whereas I, being more liberal, like both. It’s lambing season, which of course results in stop requests from moi every few farms to observe the youngins at play. I found it was far better to keep some of my musings to myself. Such as an algebraic calculation of just how many lambs could actually FIT on 2 acres of land. Gallivanting antics included. Apparently my conclusion of ‘200’ was not only INCORRECT – it was (to some) too frightening a possibility to calculate.

LpA1 = A + G 

Where LpA1 – Lambs per Acre, A = Age and G = Gallivanting 

Let’s drive on:

2.    Calves. See #1 on Keep Thy Calculating to Thyself. Somewhere along the line I realized that the exponential attractor of Baby Animals would change immensely once adulthood was reached – oh, somewhere in the period of 2 months. So I decided being a Foster Farm for Baby Animals was a much better goal. I hadn’t quite reached the part of “and what do you do when the age limit is reached” when “let’s drive on” was once again posited by the (unappreciative) Peanut Gallery.

CpA1 = A + W 

Where CpA1 = Calves per Acre, A = Age and W = Weight 

So, let’s drive on:

3.    Chickens. Now, I like eggs. Milkshakes comes quickly to mind, but I’m not above a little booze-less Nog at the holiday season. And then there’s quiches, custards…the culinary possibilities are endless. The Peanut Gallery endures eggs at best – and apparently their source, too. (Was it MY fault the city slicker next door spent 4 years acquiring 100 roosters because she (a) wanted farm-fresh eggs upon her move to the country and (b) liked their pretty combs and (c) didn’t quite get the whole hens-lay-eggs source material component? And if you want all-nite wake-up calls, get 100 roosters and no hens in a coop for 24/7 crowing competitions…luckily S. was deaf – a condition we unwittingly wished upon our own selves nightly for all 4 years…). So openly admiring the Cock of the Walk on a nearby farm evoked Peanut Gallery hostility akin to North Korea’s saber-rattling.

CpSQ = NxS 

Where CpSq = Chickens per Square Foot and NxS= Noise Per Sex 

Driving on:

4.    Llamas. Did you know llamas SPIT? I didn’t. Well, I didn’t before. The Peanut Gallery discovered this fact also, as he was charging up to rescue SOMEBODY who had Llama Spit all over her camera and self. Wow. I always thought as a cameloid, the lama likely stored a LOT of liquid somewhere – but nobody told me this model held it in its mouth, AT READY for military precision firing….There goes my Baby Cameloid Farm idea. Baby or not, these suckers have RELENTLESS AIM – and aren’t as mellow as they initially appear.

L = 0 

(Self-explanatory) 

At the end of the day, it’s all about food. And nothing says ‘food’ as much as a farm stand offering fresh veggies and baby pigs…

5.    AWWWW. Suckling pig on a baby bottle: is that PICTURE PERFECT or what? We could even keep it in the house as pigs are smart and are housebroken easily. (The Peanut Gallery pointed out that this event was evidently limited to the more diminutive Pot Belly variety. And that THESE babies are ‘regular pigs’ who get to be like 600 pounds.) But I hold firm in my contention that a HOUSEPIG would make the perfect pet. Affectionate, smart, they eat ANYTHING – and when you get tired of them, there’s unlimited bacon, pork chops, and roasts. Not that Hubert (yes, I had already named our forthcoming acquisition) could be EATEN after years of piggy affection…but returning to the Baby Animal Farm concept, who was sayin’ that when Hubert got to be anywhere close to 600 pounds, he’d still be in residence, anyway?

BP x 6 = HP 

Where BP = Baby Pig, x6 = 6 months and HP = HUGE Pig 

Returning home from our country joyride and algebraic calculations, it was to determine that a fierce hunger had set in from our journeys.

A hunger for: lambchops, burgers, chicken strips, and pork chops.

And, on my part, participation in Diane’s Baby Animal Foster Farm.

Meatloaf, anyone?

You can always tell city slickers who move to the country: used to urban combat, they consider every part of the outdoors to be a war zone, and act accordingly:

1. They have a powerful desire to change things overnight. This is because they have arrived with a Vision (planting an orchard, gardening) and they view their new land acquisition as a Tabula Rasa (i.e. nothing, obviously, is in prior existence until they have personally laid hands upon it.)

2. They view local wildlife with trepidation, at best.

Now, some things I can understand. Despite their initial ‘cute’ feel, skunks (for example) hold little attraction once one’s nose gets a whiff of something that smells nastily akin to burnt coffee.

Other things are more puzzling.

I recently had opportunity to speak with a neighbor who had moved to our hamlet from the Big City and had ‘endured’ country living’s many challenges for a whopping 2 years before throwing in her Raid and gopher traps and opting for a ‘better’ urban lifestyle.

Moi: “…but, won’t you miss small-town living?”

Miss L: “Nope, there’s not a thing I like about it. Even the trees here are dirty.”

Moi: “??”

Miss L (relentless): “They drop leaves. I am ALWAYS SWEEPING the walkway, and it’s never clean.”

Just then a dove wafted down between us in a flagrant act of bravery. Now mind you – this is the proverbial Bird of Peace. A gentle, scary-cat soul that takes flight at a moment’s notice and somehow manages to rarely poop a car in the process.

Moi: “But won’t you miss the doves?”

Miss L: “Oh, they are the WORST OF ALL. They roost on our roof all the time. I can’t sleep at night for their incessant cooing.”

Wow. I had never heard ‘dove’ associated with ‘incessant’ before.

Perhaps it was all for the good that Miss L. fled back to her urban roots.

Even though, a year later, I heard via the Town Rumor Mill that Miss L. was waging a new war in her native City.

Against pigeons.

You can always tell country folk who move back to the city. They’ve discovered the basics of warfare in the country, and are just movin’ it all back home.

‘Tabula rasa’ means ‘blank slate’. It’s commonly used to describe what the Europeans thought they found when they came to America …i.e. “nothing”. Which translates to:  anything outside of what they were familiar with in Europe simply didn’t exist.

Same goes for the changed perceptions of moving from city to country.

Think on it.

In the City there are: sirens, concrete, buildings. Amongst other things.

In the country there is: silence, grass, green stuff. Plus assorted animals.

It’s only when you live with your environment a bit more that you discover there IS no such thing as ‘tabula rasa’. In our case, our initial (urban) perception of ‘silence’ eventually translated to a variety of subtler sounds: mooing (cows), chittering and humming(birds), crowing (roosters), etc.

‘Grass’ eventually led to identifying particular  types of grasses. And ‘green stuff’ – well our neighbor taught us something about that.

Real dialogue our first Spring:

Neighbor K: So, how do you like country living?

Us Cityfolk (idealistically enthusiastic): Great! No sirens, no engine roars…just peace and quiet!

Neighbor K (conversationally): Sooo …. When are you going to do something about the thistles in your field?

Great silence.

Thistles?  

Us City Folk saw no stinkin’ thistles. Instead we saw …. Green Stuff. Two acres of it, to be exact. Benign, quiet Green Stuff. Were we SUPPOSED to ‘do something’?

Neighbor K. filled us in quite handily. Here in our neck of California Cow Country, thistles run rampant. If not cut down in a timely manner, they spread like wildfire. And speaking of fire – they are very flammable when they die back. So everyone mowed their fields before thistle breeding season took place.

Far from being ‘tabula rasa’ - or even ‘green stuff’ – we apparently owned a field packed with issues.

The Peanut Gallery then went off and discovered botanical literature emphasizing that certain kinds of thistles were key for butterfly habitats – but he never assembled the expertise to identify one thistle from another.

Being a San Francisco native, I figgered we had done GOOD just by identifying ‘thistle’, and was more than willing to just quit while I was ahead.

Our fields were duly mowed, the neighbor pacified that our thistle farm wasn’t about to spill over fence lines to invade her own carefully-tended field of Green Stuff, and Bill sobbed about the ‘destruction of butterfly habitats’ the entire time.

Tabula Rasa: it really doesn’t exist – except in the mind of the beholder who hasn’t lived in his home long enough to know da joint. 

And its issues.

Ah - I mean 'green stuff'.

Conversation over morning coffee ...

Hubby (a.k.a. Peanut Gallery): GREAT … the compost needs to be buried and my back’s not in any shape to do it.

Moi: Put it outside for the raccoons.

Peanut Gallery: I haven’t seen any raccoons around in a while.

Moi (logically): Then we need to buy raccoons. I’ll put ‘em on the shopping list. How many do you want?

Peanut Gallery: I’m not BUYING raccoons when they are EVERYWHERE for free.

Moi: You just said they’re NOT HERE. Hold on - I’ll call Lowe’s…

Country livin’.

You just gotta love it…

  "Where's the garbage??"

PS – The Peanut Gallery maintains “the whole idea of BURYING garbage is to keep the raccoons from getting at it.” 

Well, excuse me for not grasping the whole raccoon concept…

I’m a city girl – I’m still learning.

The concept of raccoons as outdoor organic garbage disposal systems seemed perfectly logical to me…                                                                           

I am one of the few people I know who believe cows reflect the quintessential yin/yang of life.

They are either Good or Evil. And I have personally known both kinds.

I live with Good Cows, actually. They occupy the fields just past our home. One rings a little dinner bell on his neck causing the entire herd to glide across the field, dutifully heading out for the Great Unknown in hopes of culinary largess. They frequently can be seen laying about grassy hillsides, chewing gum and contemplating the Universe, the Sunset, or something even more philosophical. They come should Bill call them, avid Cow Whisperer that he is. (…One hasn’t lived until one has seen 60 head pressing against a flimsy wire fence, adoringly seeking their Cow Whisperer God – who has summarily fled the Back Forty after calling them and is currently hiding under the bed lest he be indentified as the perp who led the cows on a breakout that decimated Bloomfield’s gardens.)

Then there is the Darker Side. And we’re not talkin’ chocolate milk, either.

In the Kingdom of Moo, these are the cows who like to step on feetz ‘by accident’. Repeatedly. Who then turn their heads and look back with a mooy snicker as the victim hops around on one foot, clutching a squashed appendage which has been gently stomped by an errant yet meticulously - even deviously - planned hoof.

These are the cows who mysteriously ‘dry up’ just when holiday eggnog season finally arrives.

Who refuse to follow the herd leader’s dinner bell and can be caught thoughtfully chewing gum up on the back 40 in the muddiest, hardest-to-reach corner of the pasture.

These are the cows who lead the charge into the kitchen when the farmboys, too hung over from the nite before, haven’t gotten up at exactly 4AM (milking time). At 4:15AM some 5 cows are in your kitchen rousting lay-ins and denting the kitchen linoleum. (It may be easy to sleep thru an alarm clock, but I bet you can’t sleep thru angry bellows and sounds of breaking china and tossed pots.)

Evil …. but I can relate.

Perhaps that’s why I’m over the moon about ‘em all.

It was a dark, dismal day. The kind of day when an exasperated work-at-home spouse banishes his companion to monthly Barn Cleaning Duty after he sees fit to try to emulate Jimi Hendrix on his acoustic guitar (along with the record, at full volume. Simply add vocals and mix for an over-the-top Experience.)

Bill’s muck-out-the-barn job usually involves at least an hour of cursing, so I was surprised to see him back after only 30 minutes, pale and shaking. Now, our barn definitely holds no ghosts. It DOES occasionally hold sheep. There was pretty certainly NUTTIN’ haunting around the barn to cause such a reaction.

Bill (wiping brow): I nearly had a BIG ACCIDENT in our barn.

Me (disbelieving): I have no idea what could be dangerous in a near-empty goat barn. Especially since we jettisoned the fissionable materials years ago…

Bill (dryly): Hahaha. SO NOT funny. No, I’m talking a Close Encounter of the Furred Kind.

Now, there are a LOT of Wild Fur Folk on our property. Raccoons sprung to mind. They are feisty, belligerent, and sassy troublemakers. (All the things my Mom called me in my heyday, so I relate strongly to ‘em. They are kindred spirits.)

But apparently no Raccoon was involved …this time.

Bill: …So I was mucking out the sheep pens and the bottom of the door jammed to the main pen. I got down on my hands and knees to pull it free and guess what?

Me (disbelieving ironic tone): You found a sheep?

Bill: NO – I found myself face-to-snoot with a SKUNK.

Now, let it be widely known: my nose simply don’t work. For whatever reason, the ONLY time I can smell much of ANYTHING is when it’s SO odorous as to make people around me keel over. And to me, even skunks smell FAINTLY like coffee…

But my nose pricked up and I started sniffing the air like a bloodhound, instantly calculating how many cans of tomato juice we had on hand and envisioning an emergency drive to the local market to order up a ‘bathtub full’ from a rural store owner who already had had ample warning and past experience with my strange requests – and who should readily know how many 17-oz cans could fill a man-sized tub.

Bill: You can quit your sniffing around – Stinky was a POLITE SKUNK.

Now, I’ve read plenty about skunks. But ‘polite skunk’ had not been identified in my reading, so I requested more info.

Apparently Bill and Stinky Came to an Understanding. Non-verbally, anyway. Stinky would be allowed to continue to live in the barn as long as he didn’t spray, and Bill would stay out of the second sheep pen and give him privacy.

Apparently Stinky was also a very young skunk – or a Dwarf Skunk. Either way, despite the fact that a large threat was literally in his face, no spraying took place. ‘Stinky’ just turned and waddled into the depths of his sheep pen.

Bill maintains Stinky was either (a) too young (b) spray-impaired (c) too startled to spray him.

Me: I maintain Stinky merely recognized a kindred spirit.

And in answer to Bill’s query on if I was actually calling him a skunk …. I ain’t sayin’ NUTTIN’ more about the matter!

Draw your own conclusion.

Either way, it was a win-win situation.

Bill and Stinky bonded over the months during Bill’s regular visits to the barn, until one day Stinky just vanished. Some women have to deal with The Other Woman. I had to deal with The Other Skunk: a non-stinker residing literally under my very nose.

That was years ago, but Bill STILL looks at every skunk that comes ‘round the house and fondly identifies it as a now-adult Stinky.

Until the spraying begins.

Tomato juice, anyone?

When we bought our country home we were warned about The Wildlife. Town legends had arisen about their powers. I.e.: the deer will EAT ALL OF YOUR 2.5 ACRES, the possums HAD TEETH , loved to invade garages, and WOULD EAT YOU, and ALL the raccoons were Rabid. Just a few of the un-urban legends around our small hamlet, Bloomfield.

So when Bambi first made her appearance, tentatively discovering that our house was the ONLY one in the neighborhood without a huge ‘Barkeybark’ (dog, in my lingo), she in turn was Very Polite. Bill pointed out that deer are browsers. They take generous nibbles and move on. In no way was his prized rosebushes in danger (unlike that underground denizen the Pocket Gopher, who took pride in sucking a 5-year-old fig tree into its Hole of Doom).
 

Bambi, Bill's Other Woman 

My husband Bill (a.k.a. The Peanut Gallery) spoke Bambi’s language. (Indeed, he is the quintessential Wild Animal Whisperer.) They all listened – and all the deer moved on. We had Daily Deer, all of which seemed intent on just appetizer-sized nibbles as they flicked ears to Bill's gentle mantra “Hello – umm - thou shalt NOT eat ALL” (…I’d never heard the traditional ‘om’ convert so easily to ‘Ummm’ before)

One day Buck the Buck came by for a visit. BuckyBuck. He was large. He was majestic in size and antlers. And like many a large, majestic male – he was also RUDE.

BuckyBuck The Rude One 

Shrubbery began to vanish.

Rosebushes featuring their first blushing rose of the season were later found headless. (….I was repeatedly accused of harvesting petals for my salads until Bill personally observed BuckyBuck decimating one of his favorite bushes whilst staring defiantly in the living room window, displaying an obvious middle finger on the deer’s part.)

Rude Eating at Table 

What could we do?

The Deer Patrol took care of it for us. Or maybe Bill did. When Bambi came by for her usual visit later, Bill began a dialogue with her.

Bill (siigh): LOOK at this! (waving to  Headless Rose [nee Prize of Season])

Bambi looked. I could swear she too sighed.

Bill (admonishing): I know you had nothing to do with this…but I simply can’t have this. (pause) I shall have to buy a LARGE BARKEYBARK if this continues.

I swear, Bambi’s eyes widened. Her ears stopped flicking and she stood stock still, stunned by the specter of her best human friend turning on her. She appeared to contemplate the possibilities for a moment, then turned and elegantly walked away, tiptoeing carefully among Bill’s prized garden flowers.

A few hours later, I had to call Bill to the back window.

BuckyBuck was out there in all his pompous rude glory. Surrounded by 5 female deer.

Bill (authoritatively): It must be Rutting Season, and he’s there with His Women.

Me: But, look: they’re moving as a unit towards the driveway!

And we watched, open-mouthed, as five female deer and a majestic, rude male clip-clopped down our driveway to our property’s boundary line and continued moving into the sunset.

Rut?? NOT - Escort Service! 

It wasn’t Rutting Season. It was an escort service.

The perp had been apprehended, lectured in Deer, and summarily escorted off our property.

Buckybuck never returned. We saw him around town and I have no idea what was threatened (“no sex” always works, with rude males), but whatever it was…Buckybuck never again showed antlers on our property and life returned to normal.

Never under estimate the power of a woman to get her way.