Livin' In The Country

One of the best parts of livin’ in the country (make sure you use your best twangy voice when you read that part…it sounds more effective)…one of the best part of livin’ in the coun-tray is the lack of humanity around you. Not that I don’t like people or anything, I just prefer them not to be in my face all the time or knocking on my door, or stopping by at odd hours. Okay, so maybe I don’t like people.


I’m just kidding. I love people! But I’ve also had my share of “city living” when Sweatiepy and I were living in a cute little development in Evansville, Indiana where the average age of the people living in our development was 85. After a year and a half of living across the street from our neighbor Don, we were more than happy to try to find a place in the country that would be fairly remote and void of close neighbors whenever we moved back to Ohio.

Don was a loveable, huggable older man that lived across the street from us who was also a killer old-timey boogie type of pianist. Amazingly good at the piano. The only problem with him was…the man loved to talk. Anytime, anywhere, any day, any hour…he was ready and willing to have an hour-long conversation with you. I quickly learned that as soon as we pulled in the driveway I should book it (as in sprint as fast as I could) to get in my door before Don could say “Hey there neighbor! How are you doing?!” Sweatiepy usually ended up getting stuck in the hour-long conversation with Don because he would have to walk all the way around the car to get to our front door while I had a straight shot to the door from my car door. I enjoyed giggling at him from the inside of the house while I enjoyed my favorite television show, played the piano, worked on my schoolwork or read a book…or did anything other than sit out in the humid, hot weather having an hour-long conversation. Conversations with Don were fine…I participated in many of them. Conversations with Don in the hot, humid Evansville weather were pure and utter torture.

Another benefit of living in the middle of nowhere (at least middle of nowhere in Ohio terms…if you live in Alaska or on a remote farm, it probably seems like we live in the city) is that it’s very easy to take the kids on long, enjoyable bike rides (while I push Weston in my jogging stroller.) For a two-mile bike ride we will pass five houses and approximately 0-3 vehicles will drive past us. This makes taking a bike ride a fairly safe activity to participate in.

About a mile from our house is a tiny little cemetery and that is usually the destination we decide on. When I was a child, cemeteries completely creeped me out. I hated them and avoided them at all costs…not that I really had access to any of them. My kids don’t seem to be bothered at all and I find cemeteries peaceful in a way now. Our local boy scout troop has taken it upon themselves to beautify our little cemetery and it’s nice to know that this area is still cared for my people in our community.

Although the cemetery can make me sad as well…this headstone reads “Aged 19 Days.”

Makes me want to run to my kids and thank God that they are sitting only a couple of feet away from me, safe and sound. Even though they are slightly irreverently using the grave site as a resting place.

And slightly irreverently having a sword fight in the middle of the cemetery with tree bark they found from the big tree.

In my opinion they are being active, normal, wonderful children…everything life should be for a child.

After the cemetery, our next stop is the old rusted bridge that goes over the double railroad tracks. In Weston’s opinion, this is a “must see event.” I know this because he tells me over and over and over again until we get there.

It was at this point in our ride that I noticed that Wyatt was wearing a girl helmet covered in hearts and I was thankful that he (and his siblings who would have teased him for the rest of his life) didn’t notice.

This is the part of our trip that I like the least. As a matter of fact, I hate it. Every time we reach this bridge, I begin having my heights-induced heart attack of the day. I’m having a difficult time even looking at these photos.

I’m a huge roller coaster fan and would have no problems at all going to Cedar Point to ride them all day. Mainly because they have things called SEAT BELTS and BARS and other safety features on them. Old rusted bridges just have huge openings that small children, large children and even adults could all easily trip and fall through.

I am completely unreasonable about heights though…in a reasonable kind of way. They are stupid and dumb and unsafe.
And I hate them. I’ll share my “Climb Up The Stupid Statue Of Liberty Steps” story one day and you’ll know just how reasonable/unreasonable I can be about heights.

At the exact moment I snapped this next photo of Wyatt and Weslea, Wyatt said “If I fell off this bridge, I would die. Wouldn’t I mommy?”

Which is exactly when my brain went from heart attack mode to full-blown panic attack mode screaming “Ack! Oh my word! Run like the wind, Bullseye! Run, run, RUN!!” Needless to say, we left the bridge immediately. My heart couldn’t handle it any longer.

Our ride is almost over and we turn around to ride the mile back to our house.

We enjoy the beautiful scenery of corn,

Corn,

More corn,

An occasional barn,

And…oh look! It’s more corn.

I stop to snap another photo and begin to realize that I am never going to catch up to my kids. Run Angie! Run!

Isolated bike rides. Just one benefit of livin’ in the coun-tray.