We do things differently in the country. When I say country, I don’t mean “suburbs” country, I mean “country” country. Houses are somewhat sparse amongst the seemingly endless miles of corn, soybeans, alfalfa, and patches of undeveloped forest. Other than a friendly wave, people generally go about their day with little interruption into their neighbor’s affairs. Usually at this hour I can stand on my porch and listen to the persistent hooting of the neighborhood owls, the endless chirping of the crickets, the flapping of bat’s wings as they catch insects around the yard light, and the occasional pack of coyotes letting the world know of their presence. Just after midnight tonight a new sound met my ears. It was a heavy, thump thump sound. At first I thought a website had loaded something in the background on my laptop, like an ad or something. It wasn’t until I muted the computer and shut off the speakers did I realize the sound was emanating from some place else. As I stepped onto the porch all the familiar sounds greeted me; the crickets, the owls, and the bats were all busy talking. But there was a new sound, one that I had never heard before tonight. As I cocked my head to one side and focused my hearing on the sound, the thump thump thump finally became familiar. Wafting over hundreds of acres of woods and corn fields was the unmistakable bass rhythm of Vanilla Ice’s Ice Ice Baby.
Like I said. We do things differently in the country.