This morning, yet again, a rabbit huddled in the middle of the driveway as I was trying to get on my way to work. Perhaps the rabbits do the middle-of-the-driveway huddle instinctually so the car will drive over them and not harm them. I’m not taking that chance. I edged the truck up to the bunny, beeped my horn once, and then sighed as I leaned halfway out of the car. I waved my arms in the air and let out a half-hearted “booga booga,” but the bunny didn’t care. Finally, I got all the way out of the truck, shut the door, and began walking towards the rabbit, “BOOOOOGA! BOOOOOOOOGA!”

The rabbit ran. And ran. And ran. Right down the driveway and into the road.

When the rabbit started to run, I had hopped back in the truck thinking bunny would go into the field. I climbed down from the truck again and tried to chase the bunny into the grass. Success! Bunny ran into the ditch by the side of the road!

Back into the truck, seat belt on, parking break off, clutch in, gear changed, put on the gas and start to drive. Bunny is NOT in the ditch. Bunny is in the road next to the ditch.

Put truck in reverse. Back up out of the street. Get out of the truck. Booga booga. Bunny runs down the middle of the road. BOOGA BOOGA! Bunny runs into the grass.

Back into the truck, seat belt on, parking break off, clutch in, gear changed, put on the gas and start to drive. Bunny runs OUT of the grass and back into the road!

Put truck in reverse. Back up out of the street. Get out of the truck. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGA DAMMIT BOOOOOOOOGA! Then a car comes down the road towards the bunny! RUN BUNNY RUN!!!! BOOOGABOOGABOOGA!

The bunny took one slow, graceful hop into the grassy ditch and was out of sight. This time it stayed put.

I don’t know how to take care of a gravel driveway. I’m sure there’s an intricate ritual for its upkeep known to all country folk. But no one’s letting me in on the secret. I imagine there must be truck loads of gravel, shovels, rakes, and lots of dust involved, and I’m really not into that scene. Dust makes me sneeze.

It’s okay that I don’t know what to do because I really don’t want to do it, anyhow. Whatever it is. I like how the grass and weeds are growing up in the middle of the driveway and turning it into an old country road like in Anne of Green Gables — the “White Way of Light.” And the bunnies like it too. They like to eat that grass and those weeds. They like to sit in the middle of the driveway and have their breakfast until I hop out of the truck and dance about waving my arms and cackling, “Booga booga booga!.”

I know the farmers would look at our raggedy driveway and shake their heads and rant about city folk and their strange ways. I know eventually I’ll be dodging ruts and holes. I also know I don’t really care.

Since spring hit, every morning when I drive down the long, long driveway, I see blue birds, gold finches, and rabbits zipping about in the grass, across the road, and through the air. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a real blue bird before.

What our taxes (don’t) pay for:

Example A:

A couple of years ago, according to the story told by our log cabin neigbhors, a discussion came before the county board about putting aside funding for the library bookmobile. One of the councilmen was fed up with people asking for more money, and he slammed his fist down on the table (at least in my version) and said, “If they want a bookmobile, let them use a wheelbarrow!”*

Example B:

We don’t have garbage pickup; instead, we have to toss the trash in the back of the truck and drive up to the dumpster village at the top of the street. Luckily, our dumpster village is not only very close but is also right across the street from the nearest convenience store/gas station/pizza place/tax filer/massage therapist. (Drop off trash…pick up pizza!) But…this isn’t the point. Yeah, we don’t have garbage service. Fine. We don’t pay nearly enough taxes for garbage service. I do think, though, that we pay enough for a couple cubic yards of dirt to fill in the St. Bernard-sized potholes that make the dumpster village look like it’s located in Baghdad.

*The next day a wheelbarrow appeared in the library and quickly filled with donations for the bookmobile.

The scythe arrived on Friday after a drawn out discussion with our rural letter carrier via notes in the mailbox. If we’d been in the city, I’d have had it on Monday evening. Tuesday morning at the latest. You see, when you live in the city and a package needs a signature, you merely leave work fifteen minutes early and swing by the post office. Out here, work and the post office are an hour apart, so we are at the mercy of the all-powerful rural letter carrier.

Shortly after we moved here, we received a pamphlet and a greeting from our rural letter carrier, Pat, and her backup, Debbie. Pat wanted to let us know that she was our post office on wheels. She shared this with us through the pamphlet that was, I’m fairly sure, a xerox copy of a mimeographed copy of a document pounded out on a typewriter sometime before I was born.

Some helpful hints from my post office on wheels:

— Rural customers need to affix postage onto their envelopes. (No longer can you put a chicken in the mailbox and expect your letters to get to their destination.)
— Do not alter your address as it was given to you by the post office. (Damn.)
— Rural carriers are not responsible for money left in unattended mailboxes. (Or chickens.)

Luckily for me, my mother was here and able to wait for Pat to appear with my scythe. According to my mom, Pat was a finely coifed little old lady. She sat in the passenger seat of her car. The steering wheel was in front of the driver’s seat. To steer the car, Pat reached over with her left hand and spun the wheel. My mom could only guess that there were pedals on Pat’s side of the car, but perhaps she has extremely long legs.

If all rural letter carriers drive like Pat, the helpful hint on the pamphlet to keep children far away during mail delivery time makes a lot more sense.