Country Living

I have the good fortune to live a little farther out in the country—or rather, it’s a 70-acre oasis of woods and hay field, somewhat close to a bustling little town, that has escaped being part and parceled into yet another sub division—but that’s another story. The point today is that my home feels nice, quiet, and pleasantly secluded. It also helps that the pavement on my road ends about a quarter mile before my ridiculously long driveway. Not much through traffic; I hear more airplanes than cars. And I cannot see any other houses from mine—just one yard light twinkling through the trees to the west, reminding me cheerily that someone would probably hear me if I screamed loud enough.

This seclusion means that I can do many things I could not do in my previous home in the city: leave windows open when I’m not home, mow the large lawn with the large tractor, go for a jog without locking up and carrying my keys tucked in my waistband, and (one of my favorites) walk around in various stages of nakedness without having to shut the blinds, especially in daylight. I like not shutting the bathroom door when I shower. It keeps the mirrors from getting all steamy. When I get ridiculously dirty from working outside, I can drop my clothes at the door instead of trailing mess through my tidy home.

I’ve never had a moment of worry that someone might be spying on me; shoot, in the month and a half that I’ve lived there, I’ve only had one stranger knock on my door, and he was an animal control officer. My long gravel driveway provides ample, audible warning of anyone driving up, so I have no fear of being caught by surprise. And with as hot and sticky as it’s been this week, I’ve been shucking clothes as soon as I walk in the door after work, with no worries that I'd be providing anyone with a free show. Last night, however, was different.

I stepped out of my pants and tossed them on the bed, and was removing my shirt when I looked out my bedroom window and saw…a Peeping Tom! Looking right at me, bold as brass! His head shot up when he saw that I noticed him, but his eyes remained fixed on me.

What did I do? Did I scream? Did I chase after him with my stick of justice? Did I call 911?

Nope. See, it really was a tom—a tom turkey. Ha. Gotcha. Every day or so, I see three or four wild turkeys make their bobbing way across bits of my yard. They don’t seem to notice that I’m walking around in a sports bra. Neither does the herd of seven deer that regularly visits my backyard at dawn and dusk.

Ah, country!