They're crazy about the farm

Some friends believe the wife and me to be clinically insane. They base this analysis on the fact that several years ago, we gave up what could be described as a comfortable life in a suburban neighborhood to move to an old farm.

We sold our place, took out a loan, packed up our imported luxury car with yuppie possessions and headed to the country. It was the smartest move we've ever made. We've never been happier.

Our city friends, however, mistake our happiness for insanity. They think we're nuts.

I'm from West Virginia, she's from Tennessee, but neither of us are country people. We were both raised in the suburbs, where the water never ran dry, there was cable TV with Internet access and nobody ever called to ask if we'd seen their missing cow.

All that's changed now.

Obviously, there are many differences in the suburbs and the sticks. The first and most important of these differences is the neighbors. They baked pies and brought flowers on the day we moved in. They're always quick to lend a hand or offer advice, if asked, and somehow instinctively know when to give us space and when to come to our rescue. I gladly trust them and genuinely like everyone who lives near me. That's something I've never been able to say before in my life.

I think it's the water.

Speaking of which, the first thing you learn when moving to a farm is that water comes from the ground and not, as we used to believe, from the water company. We've got a well, which optimally should always be wet, but has run dry, and a septic system, which in the best of times will be dry, but has run very, very wet.

Surprise!

We've learned a lot.

Most of what we've learned has been about animals. For instance, chickens, hens specifically, are cannibals. They will eat their own eggs. Who knew they liked omelets?

Deer sneeze. They make a distinct "Achoo!" sound when communicating with one another. It's either that or they don't like my cologne.

Last night, sitting in my living room, I heard the distinct sound of a child being strangled. The child screamed. The child choked. The child cried. From somewhere in our cornfield came the unmistakable sound of a small child being accosted.

It was just rabbits.

They were having rabbit fun.

That was explained to me by the nice county police officer I called to investigate the child's murder.

Thanks to that episode, the country people now think we're crazy, too. I guess that, along with the obvious differences, some things stay the same.

Everyone, city and country, thinks we're nuts.