My whirlwind tour has quietly ground to the most placid of a pause here in sunny, scorching Alderpoint, California. The hilltop ranching community boasts fewer inhabitants than even attended my dance recital and most of them are Jersey cows.
On my travels I expect to be mobbed by hordes of Brendan-hungry oogling fans, but out here all I’ve come across is doughy deer, cows and the ever-haunting howl of crickets. Am I wrong or is the song of the cricket the universal sound effect for a pregnant pause? (Insert sound of crickets here while I’m waiting for you to get it and laugh.)
Fortunately I had expert moo trackers with me, including the shepherd girl with the doily on her head (pictured below). That guidance helped me see a scrub-brushy landscape as one ostensibly being home to something other than head-high grasses and mosquitoes. They led me to where the cows hung out, their trail literally littered with patties of their own stench-some creation.
All in all it was a neat change of pace for me. I’m a city kid and always thought cows were dog-sized and that life was hectic by design. Sadly though, no sooner had my blood pressure settled to a reasonable level than we had to head back out again.
Have my handlers learned nothing from this easy-gone adventure high in the hills an easy hour out from the middle of nowhere? Life mustn’t always be about hassle, hustle, bustle and a frenzied pursuit of whatever is around that next corner. I guess again I’m a victim of circumstance and a part of my own fast-paced parcel life, commanded to go where e’er my fans demand me.
Citizens of Alderpoint, though no one may ever know you exist I will not forget you for a very long time. Perhaps days or even a week and that coming from me, my friends, is an outrageous compliment.