Cows, Chicks & Mennonites, Oh My!

                I live where they filmed Deliverance.  Actually, that’s a lie.  But I am surrounded by water and trees and dirt and men with suspect mustaches.  (Including my husband, but for totally different reasons.  I mean, how many Asians have mustaches?  Shave that shit, husband.)

                When we bought the house, the previous owner kept acres and acres of land behind us on which he housed cows.  Grilling hamburgers on the deck while looking at cows was slightly uncomfortable (and still delicious), but other than that the cows were never a problem.  In fact, they were often a source of summertime entertainment, as we’d jump in the pool armed with water guns and see how many we could hit before they started mooing and jogging further back pasture. 

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                In the fall of  2011, the man who owned the cows and land and told us he’d “never in this lifetime sell either” sold them both.  But, presumably, not to the same people.   The cows left, and we mourned the loss of their voices as we slathered BBQ sauce on their brethren and slapped them on the grill. 

                Over the winter months, tractors and trucks carrying building materials made their way back to the land.  The entrance to the property was widened, and dirt was either smoothed down or piled up, according to the new owner’s plan.  I had hoped he’d started some sort of development down my dirt road. I had hoped to have concrete and neighbors and kids on bikes in my neck of the (literal) woods. I crossed my fingers that he wasn’t preparing for what the entire town said he was, and I hoped vehemently I wouldn’t have chicken houses behind me.  Hope can bite my ass.

            As the chicken houses went up in the distant field, the search for the perfect people to run them ensued.  Apparently people who own chicken houses are not the same people who tend to them, and the rule of thumb is that the owner will provide a home for the working family. 

            Yesterday I met the chosen chicken keepers -- the people who will soon by my neighbors.  They are a perfectly nice family who agreed to not run over my septic tank with their tractor.  They are also Mennonites.  If you think about it, my family is really not so different from their family.  We both drive black vans, and the kids of both parties always look like they took a bath in jelly and dried off with dirt. 

Abe, the Mennonite patriarch, said they’d likely plant some trees on the land boundary closest to our pool, so as to give our family some privacy.  I said, “I don’t blame you.  I don’t even want to see myself in a bathing suit!”  And then I laughed and touched his arm, which is probably kind of like having sex with him.    After that uncomfortable exchange, I readily jumped back into my black van, which is clearly different than his black van, as mine had a three-year-old in the backseat singing, “You’re looking so damn hot” while gyrating in her carseat.  Her brother was seated next to her and playing on his phone.  But it’s a black phone, so I’m not sure if that’s okay or not.

My entire family jumped in the pool late last night, and I was quick to relay my conversation/sexual encounter to my husband. 

Cy said, “So we’ll have nice neighbors and some privacy.”

To which I countered, “You’re missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“We’ll have something to shoot with water guns this summer.”

“Hurray for little chickens.”

“Oh, I didn’t think about the chickens.  I was thinking Mennonites.”