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Yolo County, across the river from #Sacramento, is pretty rural. Not for nothing are Aggies the unofficial mascot of UC Davis (official: Mustangs, which nobody uses. A friend of mine wrote her thesis about the tomato harvester, invented here. 1/
I see them on my street in late summer, and now, I see semis with massive bins of pumpkins heading to wholesalers. Same neighbor has a pumpkin patch. To pick up my dog at the vet the other day, I had to wait for various tractors to clear the lane. 2/
Neighbors have horses, cattle and sheep. I have goats. We all have chickens, and the only nasty turf wars here are wild turkeys vs. feral peacocks. But ... this is the end of the line for rural living within sight of State Capital dome and we know it. 3/
Where we once marked the seasons with the harvest of tomatoes, or pumpkins, or wondering if the sweet corn will be at Dave’s farm stand by the 4th of July, we’ve started noting some of the markers of suburbia, Halloween decor and later, Christmas lights. 4/
The one we find most amusing, though, is what happens at official dawn the first day of waterfowl season, when my good hunting dog raises his head in hope, soon to be dashed because I am disables, with no business in a duck blind. 5/
One of my neighbors calls it “Cidiot Panic Day. The shotguns sound off from the Yolo Bypass, and you know hundreds of people who weren’t in one of the newish, stucco 10 to acre tract homes are lighting up the lines at the County dispatch center. 6/
This morning when the big dog whined eagerly at the sound, I got a cup of coffee, went back to bed and picked up my phone. I wanted to see what the new neighbors had to say. 7/
“New here?” they tease, before explaining hunting seasons, and why the local Italian restaurant is named Club Pheasant and has taxidermied game birds from decades ago behind glass in the lobby. (BTW, order the ravioli.) 8/
Startled and outraged, the newer residents get riled, and damn they are going to DO SOMETHING about this. There’s talk of petitions, of zoning changes (to the Yolo Bypass? The Pacific Flyway?) and change, change, change. 9/
Even though I am one of the new people, inasmuch as I have lived for only a decade in what anyone on my street will tell you still is “The Allen House,” they give me a pass, because my neighbor Ann knows them all, and has hunted with most. 10/
Every year Ann rolls her eyes at the efforts of the newer people. “Nothing’s changing,” she says. “There’ll be shotguns in the fall forever.” And so it has gone, every year since I bought “The Allen Place.” Every year until ... this one. 11/
There is a development called “Liberty” going in at the end of the street, hundreds of homes, a new school, parks — the whole works. It’s depressing to me, but it’s heartbreaking to Ann. We went out this morning for (of course) as many boxes of bird shot as we could find. 12/
Which turned out to be, two, because you can’t get guns or ammo, no way, no how, not because of hunting, but because even liberals like me (albeit an outlier on the whole hunting/gun owning thing) are just nervous enough about prospect of civil unrest or even war 13/
Are buying everything lethal they can, just in case. The gun ranges are full of beginners but not many experienced shooters, I was told, because they’re holding onto their ammo. The hunters this morning weren’t, but maybe that’s just to annoy those Cidiots. Or not. 14/
After all, tradition still counts for a lot, and this a big day for traditionalists here.
So, we’re coming back from our near-secret hole in the wall gunsmith with a couple boxes of shells, the gun dog catching a whiff from the back seat, but 15/
So, we’re coming back from our near-secret hole in the wall gunsmith with a couple boxes of shells, the gun dog catching a whiff from the back seat, but 15/
He’s on to me now, and just falls asleep. Ann knows how I voted, and she knows I probably don’t want to know she votes, so we talk about the drop boxes we used, and then about the shotguns at dawn. 16/
“Really,” she says, “hardly anyone hunts anymore. It won’t be long now.”
She looks out the window, a blue cowboy bandana over her face. “Liberty,” she spits out ironically. “No, not long at all.”
She smiles, “but we’re friends, right.”
“Right.” I smile, understanding. 17/
She looks out the window, a blue cowboy bandana over her face. “Liberty,” she spits out ironically. “No, not long at all.”
She smiles, “but we’re friends, right.”
“Right.” I smile, understanding. 17/
“Right,” she says again.
“It’ll be fine,” I say, not really all that sure myself.
“Next week we’re gonna pick up those goats?” she says, and I nod.
And I turn onto our road, brake sharply to avoid the back end of 18/
“It’ll be fine,” I say, not really all that sure myself.
“Next week we’re gonna pick up those goats?” she says, and I nod.
And I turn onto our road, brake sharply to avoid the back end of 18/
Of a semi loaded with pumpkins, going slowly whole the family in a Honda sedan tries to get around, driver leaning into the horn.
The driver veers into the opposite lane, and slams on the bricks at the sight of a tractor coming the other way. A couple minutes later 19/
The driver veers into the opposite lane, and slams on the bricks at the sight of a tractor coming the other way. A couple minutes later 19/
The Honda passes the pumpkin truck, middle finger extended through the moon roof.
“Cidiots!” yells Ann in outrage and relief at the accident that didn’t happen, and suddenly we start laughing.
“Cidiots,” I agree, as I drop her in front of her barn.
“Goats next,” she says. End/
“Cidiots!” yells Ann in outrage and relief at the accident that didn’t happen, and suddenly we start laughing.
“Cidiots,” I agree, as I drop her in front of her barn.
“Goats next,” she says. End/
(apologies for just rolling with it, typos and a missed tweet and all.)
My very good Gun Dog, who forgives me every fall.
