During my self-imposed absence from blogging, I managed to move from my quaint Delphi home, to the country. Now by country, I don’t want any of you (those scant remaining readers) to imagine a secluded wooded glen. Here in Indiana, country simply means “to far from a convenience store to forget anything). Simply put, I live in the corn, or the beans depending on the crop cycle. So here in the corn, where it’s flat, and all trees have been suppressed by virtue of their lack of immediate payoff, one can see as far as the eye will allow. Which isn’t very far, considering that corn is much taller when it isn’t in a can.
Notably, my current house had been unoccupied for about three years prior to our purchase of it. In town this might mean that a few teens may have slipped some roofies on your porch, perhaps defecated in your shed. In the “country” vacancy is one way of telling nature (and its many woodland in habitants), that “yeah, I like weeds and indiscriminate animal housing”. Needless to say, I spent many a month weeding and cleaning. I have a lovely fire ant story just begging to be told: It involves partial nudity and screaming. The weeds, though an issue, were something I was willing to tackle. What sobered me was the woodland creatures’ desire to die in my lawn. Ok, I sympathize. Let’s imagine that I am suddenly struck by a speeding vehicle, it would only be natural for me to seek the nearest peaceful escape available. So, I am understanding. Unfortunately, my dead animal handling skills have limits, specifically related to size and consistency. For example, I have no trouble fondling a dried, empty animal skull, creepy I know, but well within my limits. So, when my dog became suspiciously interested in the area behind the grain bin, I knew I was in for a treat. Following his lead, I discovered a grotesquely bloated raccoon carcass. Knowing my limits, I asked my dear husband to dispose of this creature. Well, his idea of disposal involved a lawn mower. Oh yes, small pieces are much more palatable!
Other notable country living facts: my nearest neighbor is pushing 100, so it is that every time I see her, bouncing expressionless in head scarf and giant wrap-a-round sunglasses on her monstrous riding lawn mower, I am mirthfully reminded of the movie “Weekend at Bernies”. Also, the tiny garage that operates as the local mom ‘n pop charges so much for a bag of flour, that I am tempted to just head on out to the wheat field, mortar and pestle in hand!
So, again I am unemployed. My job working with ED/BD teens (oh my! The tales I could tell) has ended with the school year. Once more I find myself peddling my wares to prospective employers, who unabashedly assume I would be willing to submit to a consumer report?! Really? I find myself signing this permission more often than not. It appears that Sally Mae, may indeed have the last laugh. Wish me Luck.