Photo by Daria Nepriakhina on Unsplash
Bruce and I went for a drive in the country one afternoon and I made a number of observations that I feel I must share.
When town or city people drive past cattle, inevitably someone in the car will say MOO. I don’t know why this is. Usually it will bring a giggle from someone but it really makes no sense and it is just a habit we have, probably because we’re nervous when we are away from the city and the traffic.
Plus, we are not used to seeing beef without a baked potato and some garlic toast beside it. That’s a theory I’m working on anyway.
The same thing happened when Bruce spotted some bee hives because he started making a buzzing noise there too. This is a 60 year old man, for heaven’s sake. But then again, he still wants me to smell his farts, so that is the clay I’m sculpting with here.
Every turn we took, there was a yellow sign that said CAUTION: CHILDREN. Now, were they warning us, the drivers, to slow down and be cautious of their precious little bundles that may be around? Or was it something more sinister in that we were being WARNED to keep a sharp eye out for evil children hiding in the tall grass with homemade weapons, ready to pounce on our vehicles and take our stuff if we even slowed down enough to give them a shot.
I was out of my element on that one. We didn’t see any children, armed or otherwise, but if they were any good at the latter, we wouldn’t have seen them until it was too late. I’m still a little shaky on that one and I think our next drive will be on a school day.
As an aside, I would really like to have a sign on a road especially for me.
We saw lots of harvesting equipment sitting idle but no one around was harvesting. I have driven grain trucks during harvest in my younger days but the equipment we saw seemed, well, newer. And bigger. And better than anything my family ever had. Bru and I kind of gaped at some of the stuff parked there trying to figure out which end went where. We eventually gave up when we saw another yellow CAUTION: CHILDREN sign and fearing for our lives, we left the area.
We came across a small town that I had been wanting to see. It began as a really tiny place but new construction had beefed it up pretty good so I was interested in how all that turned out. We drove through the old part of the town and it was only a couple of streets with older houses. The newer area focused on a golf course and most of the houses were occupied. This place was north of the main highway so it was somewhat close to Strathmore and somewhat close to Calgary, but still a bit ‘out there’.
One thing was bothering me and that was the lack of a gas station, corner store or any commercial premise whatsoever where you could buy milk or bread or anything essential. You would have to drive to Strathmore, which was the closest. We had timed it and the drive, one way, was 30 minutes. That means it is an hour to run into town and get something. To quote ever boyfriend I’ve ever had and a number of family members: I’M OUT. I can barely drag myself to Wal-Mart and that takes 5 minutes to get there if you count warming up the car for 4 minutes.
This new community seemed unusual and uncivilized. Maybe they have underground factories producing all of their stuff. That would make better sense to me than driving for an hour for a pound of butter.
We saw these long rows of something covered in plastic. It didn’t look like they were round bales because the rows weren’t uniform. Unless they were the round bales that had simply given up on life and were now being given a decent burial under the plastic, never to be seen again. There are always some round bales that aren’t wound quite as tight as the others. I have friends like that – but the other way around – they are wound as tight as a round bale. You can take one look at them and say to yourself – OOOH. THAT TWINE IS GOING TO SNAP TODAY.
We wound up our day by chasing a crop dusting plane until we found his hide-out. That was lots of fun as we kicked up enough dust on the road to rival anything he was putting down. He was probably on to us right away and now has been checking the Internet on how to turn his plane into a gun-ship. We haven’t been back to that neck of the woods since, so I’m sure he feels much safer now that we aren’t stalking him from the ground anymore.
When I was a kid and hung at the family farm over my summer holidays, we always went for Sunday drives after church. My Uncle always drove – single, bachelor farmer wearing his good Sunday hat. His sister, a widow, lived there too. She always had a perm, wore a pretty dress on Sunday and smelled of juicy fruit gum. Then Dad, Mom and us three kids. We would wind around the country, and there was always some Fun Fact about every place we passed. OH THAT’S FRANK’S PLACE – HE SHOT HIMSELF IN THE BASEMENT.
What now? He did? How? Why? And then they would claim to forget the details.
Eventually we would end up at the cemetery. One time I noticed an area way up in the corner, fully enclosed in a white picket fence. I asked about that and my Aunt told me that the husband married his niece and they had a bunch of kids, but that was against the Catholic religion so when they died, they were buried on a non-sacred piece of land. Then my mom chimed in saying that didn’t someone commit suicide and that’s why they were buried in there, and so forth.
Either way, I was all over that but no one could answer my questions. Again, their memories were mysteriously blocked.
Sounds to me like they didn’t need Dancing With the Stars in those days. They had enough going on.