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...