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…