“I’m sorry we’re late,” I said. “We had to stop and tell a farmer one of his cows got out.”

It’s not the first time I’ve had to make this apology. I’m sure it won’t be the last. 

Like dogs that see a chance to slip out an open door for a taste of freedom on the other side, cows have a natural tendency to take any chance they can get to try the grass out there beyond that break in the fence line. 

Stopping to let a farmer know it’s happened is just part of being a good neighbor. 

These sort of encounters are the type that make friends and co-workers who live in big cities around the country shake their heads and laugh at the quirkiness of life in the country. 

“What happened, Jeanne? Another tractor traffic jam?” they’ll ask if I’m running behind to a Zoom meeting. 

The laughter is gentle, but their expressions give them away: “We don’t think you’re lying. We’re just not quite sure how to believe you.”

If you live in western Sullivan County, you know that look. 

You’ve gotten it when you’ve told a visiting friend that they didn’t need to lock their car doors in your driveway. 

You’ve seen it when you’ve told a stranger in the middle of town that their cellphone isn’t working because nobody’s cellphone works here. 

You’ve spotted it on the face of a family member from out-of-town when you’ve said there’s no such thing as Uber in the country. 

But for every point of confusion, there’s a counterpoint too — those moments when that out-of-towner marvels that it must be wonderful to live in the mountains or stands stock still outside your house for 5 minutes, staring up at the stars. 

It’s moments like these that remind me to look around, at the eagles, the bears, and yes, the cows, and remember that sometimes I can’t quite believe I get to live here either.