Critters, Cornfields, and a Whole Lotta Crazy

We built our dream home smack in the middle of a cornfield.

Miles and miles of stalks swayed on either side of the narrow country road leading to our three-acre plot, carved from 110 acres that had been in Tim’s family for years. It was the first time we’d had a home custom built just for us. A white farmhouse with a long driveway, a sharp turn into the garage, and sweeping views of nature’s majesty. Or so we thought.

We moved in, starry-eyed, with our two kids, Kyle and Kelsey, feeling like we’d landed in a Hallmark movie. But the reality of rural life set in quick. It turns out when you build in uncharted territory, the original residents, wildlife, don’t just roll out the welcome mat. They fight for their turf.

A lone, old tree stood out in the middle of the field, spared by decades of harvesters who plowed around it as if it were sacred. At night, headlights from our car would catch dozens of glowing eyes reflecting from that tree…raccoons, owls, possums, deer, you name it. The raccoons were dog-sized geniuses. One trash night mistake meant centuries’ worth of garbage now scattered throughout the surrounding woods.

The deer weren’t shy either. They pranced right up to our back porch and nibbled our perfect patch of St. Augustine like it was fine dining. And then came the day Tim unknowingly mowed over a rabbit nest. Nature is beautiful, but it can break your heart, too.

Still, none of these critters held a candle to the terror of the scorpions. I swear we built over a scorpion convention center. They showed up everywhere: hiding in shoes, crawling down walls, even falling from the ceiling. One dropped into my shirt while I was doing dishes, stung me several times, and for days, I had what looked like a third boob. Tim’s first sting sent him hollering through the house, “Get the onion! Get the onion!”, because someone told us that an onion draws the venom out. I’m not sure if it worked, but it made for great marital bonding.

Then there was the time I heard a loud rattle…yes, a rattlesnake on our front porch, squared off with our cat. We called Tim’s cousin, a fearless local vet, who came armed with a hoe and shovel. She gave us a full-on demo of how to decapitate a rattler and warned us never to touch the head, even after it’s off. The venom stays deadly.

Noted…

Wildlife also met the underside of my car. One night, rushing home from Kyle’s basketball game, I narrowly missed a rabbit crossing the road. But I didn’t see the coyote chasing it until, “WHAP!”  Radiator fluid was leaking out everywhere and smoke was coming from the hood, so the next day, the mechanic looked under the car and said, “Well, I found gray fur. So, you either hit a coyote…or some poor old man out for a walk.” Not funny. (Okay, a little funny.)

And we can’t forget the ants. FIREANTS! You never saw the pile. You just felt the attack, burning stings up your legs like someone lit a match. If the scorpions didn’t get you, the fireants and grass burrs (aka “stickers”) would. Nature’s landmines.

The Texas heat didn’t help either. We were a daily buffet for biting horseflies and mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds. I don’t know what kind of super serum was in that soil, but the insects out there came with their own zip codes.

Every summer, the farmer who still worked the surrounding cornfields would roll in with his massive harvester. It was always the peak of a hot Texas day when the dry soil turned to powder. His machines stirred up clouds of dust so thick you’d think a storm was coming, except it wasn’t rain falling, it was earth. That dust coated everything we owned, inside and out. You couldn’t clean fast enough to keep up. And while I coughed and wiped down the windows for the third time that week, I imagined him on that big tractor, smiling wide, maybe even a little smug, knowing full well he was covering the newcomers in the same dirt that once grew his crops. He didn’t say much, but the dust said it all.

But perhaps the most outrageous run-in of all…was with a turkey.

One afternoon, I pulled into the driveway and found a massive tom turkey blocking the garage. I lightly honked. It strutted closer. I cracked the window and said, “Shoo!” Instead, it flared its feathers and started pecking my window like it meant business. I called Tim in a panic and asked, “Do turkeys bite?” He didn’t know.

Super helpful…

I tried backing out to give it space, but that bird chased me. Tail fanned out, wings spread wide, he was either protecting his harem of hens or thought my car was a suitable mate. I finally outmaneuvered him, zipped into the garage, and slammed the door with the remote, heart pounding. I peeked out the window and there he was…surrounded by at least a dozen lady turkeys, still strutting like he owned the place.

No one believes that story. But I know what I saw!

Building a house in a cornfield sounded like a dream. But we quickly learned that when you share the land with nature, you better expect some resistance. In the end, we found a rhythm. Less scorpions, fewer surprises, and a deeper respect for all the wild things that called it home long before we did.