This is Scout, and he’d like to know if you have any treats for him, and if you don’t, he’d like to know why the hell not. You see, Scout is a bit of an equine jerk. He’s bossy and throws temper tantrums when he doesn’t get his way. Mostly, he’s very bossy to this beleaguered fella:

This is Tug. Tug is very patient with Scout, even if Scout does not let him have his share of treats, even if Scout nudges and bugs him when he’s trying to sleep, even though he can’t get a drink of water in peace. All that said, they genuinely seem to enjoy each other’s company. They belong to Dr. Evil’s parents, but they are still living on this side of the road. And boy howdy, has Dr. Evil taken a shine to them. She visits with them every day (treats, yo), and managed to get a halter on Tug this afternoon. There is a colloquium and praxis scheduled for Sunday afternoon between Dr. Evil and her father. I’ll take photos for you, good readers, I owe you that much.

In case anyone thinks horses are dumb beasts, there’s this: They take great pleasure in standing by the fence outside our kitchen window when it’s raining, showing us just how sad, miserable and pathetic they are (they have a covered area available to them, so shut up, horses), as if we might invite them in. Hmm. I’d better just go ahead and tell Dr. Evil that she is not to invite them in. Just to be safe.

***DISCLAIMER: DR. EVIL INSISTS SHE WAS NOT TRYING TO KILL ME***

Know how you can tell we’re country now? We burn our trash. Well, some of it anyway. I’m still undecided on how I feel about this, but it’s not like we’re burning a rain forest or something, and trash pickup is not the simple matter it is in the ‘burbs. Mostly, we’ve been burning moving boxes—how’s that for setting your money on fire? Buy boxes in Charleston, unpack them in Ohio, then burn ’em. Oy.

Anyway, about a week after we arrived, we had a communal bonfire with Dr. Evil’s folks, who were also burning their moving detritus. It was a serious conflagration, and my inner 7-year-old firebug was delighted. By Saturday, we’d accumulated another bevy of boxes, along with various files and papers that we were dumb enough to haul all the way to Ohio before parting with. Included in this lot were a bunch of old greeting cards (Dr. Evil’s, not mine; I keep mine, like normal people do). About halfway through the burn, I was alarmed to hear strange noises coming from the burn pit. They sort of sounded like the Wicked Witch of the West, but on speed vernier. I chuckled, realizing the sound was coming from musical greeting cards, a few of which were in the mix. Then it wasn’t quite as amusing as the batteries in these cards began to explode, sounding like M80s and launching geysers of burning paper about a foot and a half high. Fortunately, the pit is bounded on three sides by concrete block and on the fourth side by a tall, moveable steel shroud, behind which I took cover from the Hallmark assault. Obviously, I lived to tell the tale, but I’m not the same man I was when I went to that burn pit; I’ve seen things, man.

Was she trying to kill me? I guess not, but I did recently introduce her to one of the most heartbreaking songs ever, which could have given her ideas.

Yesterday was Dr. Evil’s mother’s birthday, so we made the trek ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE ROAD to wish her well and present her with a vegan/gluten free gift basket. Ask me, I think I’d boil and eat the wicker basket the gifts came in before I’d hit the stuff inside. They have been doing the vegan thing for over a year now and seem to be pretty good with it at this point. We tease them about their cereal-for-dinner evenings, but had to chuckle at ourselves when we were eating oatmeal on a Saturday morning (yes, friends, it was a pasrtyless Saturday, and no good can come from that). There was dairy-free cheesecake. I passed.

Dr. Evil’s brother and brood also attended. Two boys, ages 11 and 7, and one girl 5-ish, and they seem to be made of pure energy. Chattering, storytelling, kidsplaining, leaping, bouncing, circling. Holy smokes. We stayed for a bit less than two hours and I was spent. If you want to feel old, just hang out with young kids. What’s amazing to me is how unfazed parents are by all the tumult, but I suppose it’s what you get accustomed to. One of the birthday cards bore some priceless advice, though: Never invite a black hole to your birthday party. I’d extend this caution to all parties, but it’s solid advice nonetheless.

It’s foggy and damp today, so we have a fire going. I hope everyone’s Sunday is as quiet as they want it to be.

Oh, Dr. Evil tried to kill me, but I’ll save that story for tomorrow.

Can you really claim to live somewhere until you’ve experienced that place’s particular brand of bureaucracy? I say no. And to that end, Dr. Evil and I are headed off this morning to tangle with the beast of beasts: the DMV. Wish us luck, and I’ll be back later with a full report on the festivities.

PM UPDATE:

The photo I posted prior to going the the DMV (sorry, BMV) was a stock image from Google. Here’s what we really found:   

There was no line, and four clerks, three of them quite pleasant, even. It was one of the better DMV experiences of my life. Naturally, we could not do all the things we wanted to do in one trip—that’s just the nature of the DMV, I think—but as interactions with the government go, it was a solid A.

Side note: Two younger men came in to renew their licenses while we were conducting our business. They both declined the offer to register to vote.

We weren’t overwhelmed by noise in Charleston, but there was always the hum of I64 way in the distance, the sound of coal trains rolling alongside the Kanawha, barking dogs, and, in season, the various roars of air conditioning units. Here, it’s just quiet. We are a hundred yards or so off the road (it just seems like two miles when you’re walking to the mailbox in the cold), but traffic is sparse, so sparse in fact that your attention is drawn to any car (truck) that comes down the road. We did, however, encounter a traffic jam last week, but the goats eventually got out of road and we were underway again in no time. It’s been snowing and icing for the last few days, which adds another buffer to the noise of the world. I know that spring will bring new noise, what with machinery springing back to life, but it’ll be nothing like the lawnmower chorus of the suburbs. It’s quiet. And I like it.

Not bad. Got rid of a bunch of empty moving boxes, wrestled a freezer into the basement, met with the builder about rehabbing an outbuilding . . . oh, and I roasted some coffee. Really, really roasted some coffee. Who else needs a beer?

How is it that the shortest month feels like the longest month? It can’t be just the weather, can it? We’ve had some cold spells over this winter so far, and more snow earlier than usual, but as a whole, it’s been a very typical winter around here, yet from here, March 1 looks like a very distant mountain peak. Our family jokes about February being the worst month, with NOTHING good about it; this is because it’s the birth month of Kid Number 1 (22 this year? No way. Way.) Now that the Super Bowl is firmly ensconced in February (yes, children, it used to occur in January, back in civilized times), I suppose there is that to look forward to, but my enthusiasm for the NFL in general continues to wane, and lately the Super Bowl has not raised my interest much. Add to that Tom frickin’ Brady, and I don’t even want to hunt for the remote control, ya know? And don’t think that I’m overlooking the general shafting Black History Month gets by being relegated to the shortest, coldest month. Valentine’s Day, you say? Yeah, VD, Hallmark, and the chocolate and floral industries can kiss right off. Heck, this February is so weak, it doesn’t even get its own full moon.

I’ll say this for February, however: At least it’s not a big, fat liar like March. We’ll discuss March’s inadequacies another time, I promise.

Have I mentioned that everything is 25 miles from us? Groceries? 25 miles. Hardware store? 25 miles. Dining (other than Subway)? 25 miles. There’s a stop-and-rob in the village nearest us, so we’re good for gasoline, Twinkies, and Coors Light, but if you want anything else . . . you guessed it: 25 miles. This has changed the way that I shop. Prior to this, I was more of an every third day grocery shopper. We kept staples and frozen meats and whatnot in the house, but for day-to-day things, I generally would not plan out farther than three days. The new way tends to create a sense of panic when you are at the grocery store, “Oh, I’d better get two of those. No, THREE.” And beer? Fuhgetaboutit. I’m considering getting a kegerator. (Just kidding. Probably.)

This distance problem is especially meaningful come Friday. Dr. Evil and I like to treat ourselves to pastries on Saturday mornings while we watch This Old House. Hey, we’re wild. Now, that means either baking something here (to which we’re not averse, but c’mon, every week?), or trekking into town, 30 minutes each way, and probably using the trip to run some other in-town errand. Pastries and paint. Pastries and oats for the horses. Pastries and a full-out Friday grocery shop. Oy. Maybe our new tradition can be Frosted Flakes and This Old House. Surely the Little General has fresh milk, right? Right?

Alright, I’m going into town, anyone want anything?