Dear World: I Am Trying to Figure Out What to Do With This Dead Racoon

Being in rural America is like traveling to a foreign country: you’ve got to re-learn how to do EVERYTHING.

I’m Ash, and I’m a writer, blogger, nomad, and historic real estate nerd, and here at The Middle Finger Project I write about spunky ways to reinvent yourself, your career, and your life. Every Sunday I’m sharing funny field notes about my own self-reinvention, which has presently found me back in America after twenty years abroad, in an 1800s farmhouse in the countryside, where I am rediscovering what it means find home, happiness, and a damn good sense of humor.

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Neighbor stopped by and told me he’s making a bunker.

Woman behind me in line at the wine shop commented that someday she’d like to try wine that actually costs money. That she’s only ever had the ones that cost a few bucks. A Riesling. With peach flavors. She was buying a bottle of vodka. Going to mix with orange juice. When she left, she was wheezing audibly.

Made the tile guys soft-boiled eggs. They had never had them before.

Americans like to burn things. One guy I know just burned his whole above-ground pool. “Needed to get rid of it,” he said. So he lit a match and made a giant bonfire.

Another friend was getting rid of an old recliner. “I’ll just take it up to my dad’s land and burn it,” he said. “You should see how hot these things get!” Apparently recliners are being burned at a clip around here.

There’s an old wooden trellis laying against the side of the cottage. I’m waiting to put into a dumpster. “Just burn it,” another friend said nonchalantly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t think of that,” I replied.

Now there’s a burn ban in place until April 16. Isn’t that interesting? There’s an announcement on the sign at the firehall. When I asked why, I was told that the brush is really dry right now. Fire could get out of control. What will everybody do?

A friend asked me if I could do her a favor while they were away for the weekend: could I go over to their house and close the chicken coop at night? I told her she’d have to send me a detailed video, as I have never even seen a chicken coop.

The day OF MY BIG CHICKEN DEBUT, I took my job very seriously. Told people I couldn’t stay for dinner. Was determined to be there exactly at 6pm, when she instructed me to arrive, because what if I was late and they got eaten by coyotes?????? What if I was early and the chickens weren’t in there???????? How are there people raising chickens in tiny little chicken houses, but have never had a soft-boiled egg????

I drove up their driveway on 10 acres of land in the cold, cold dark and—after a brief period of circling a barn and traipsing through the yard and searching around with the flashlight on my iPhone like some sort of robber—I finally found it: THE MECCA. To my surprise, the chickens were in it just like she said, which I found odd because if your parents were out of town you’d never stick to your curfew. I pulled the latch and then it closed and then I left, and I have never been more victorious.

Broke my foot doing cartwheels on a trampoline. At least, it felt like I did. Trampolines are also very American. Who else has a yard big enough for a spaceship?

Was on the trampoline in order to be “the cool one” who “did stuff like that.” Was with a friend’s kids—a 5-year-old girl and 9-year-old boy—trying to bait them into raking up all the pinecones on my lawn. We played a game where I laid on the trampoline with my eyes closed and declared what kind of animal I wanted to be—a mallard duck, obviously—and then they ran circles around me three times chanting some sort of chant and commanded me to wake up. At that point, I had to stand up, and try to tag both kids with my eyes closed. Have never felt more like a middle-aged mummy.

Ordered a pizza. “Thanks honey” the woman said to me, hanging up the phone. Oh, rural America: you are so 1990.

Pulled beadboard off of a kitchen wall and found drywall that was a little rotted. Did you know all you have to do is buy SOME MORE DRYWALL AND HANG IT???? You can buy a little square at the hardware store, and you can cut it with a utility knife, and you can fit it in there, and then just drill it into the wooden studs. What is this magical life?

Woke up and there was a dead raccoon on my lawn. Less magical. It was curled up like it was taking a nap. Ice crystals had formed on its fur overnight. What does one do with a dead racoon on the lawn? This is what I mean when I say that being in rural America is like traveling to a foreign country: you’ve got to re-learn how to do everything. So I walked to the garage. And I grabbed the metal shovel. And I walked back out. And I vomited a little in my mouth. And I slid it underneath its corpse. And I hoisted the thing up. And I put it in the bed of my Jeep. And then I drove it up the road. Where there were lots of woods. And no houses. And no cars. And then, like a real American, put it on someone else’s property.

An eight-year-old drove by on a side by side. Couldn’t see over the steering wheel. Looked very determined to get where he was going. Little fucker didn’t even wave.

The furnace in the cottage is corroded. It’s corroded because there’s a stream of water running through the basement. There’s a stream of water running through the basement because it was built on top of a spring. Do you know what a spring is?????? It’s a natural exit point where groundwater emerges FROM THE EARTH. Like a permanent water fountain. That’s always on. And never stops. And can’t be shut off. And all I can think is: how can I make this into a tourist attraction?

There are lots of springs on my land (apparently). By my count, four. It’s all cute and whimsical and stuff until you excavate the driveway of the main house and find a copper pipe running directly INTO IT, and water coming out of it that also can’t be stopped. On the bright side, I now have a built-in faucet for washing my hands. Less exciting, however, is the fact that I have WATER RUSHING ONTO MY DRIVEWAY.

The neighbor making the bunker sees me picking up the pizza. He tells me, once more, not to trespass on his property or he’ll “shoot me in the head.” He has escalated things! Last time it was just that I’d get shot. He is kidding, of course. Hardy har har. Then he tells me has a book about the area. A historical book of sorts. Would I like him to drop it off?

“Only if you want to get shot in the head,” I replied. “And I’ll burn down your house while I’m at it. You should see how hot those things get!”

See? I have a sense of humor too.

If only there wasn’t a burn ban in place.