You Know You've Moved to the Ranch...

when your drive home passes by huge agribusiness, a power plant, and a junk yard, as well as a marine refuge, a working harbor, and a slough.

when your first attempt at ridding the house of flies nets you forty dead in a matter of minutes.

when your average for killing Black Widows is about one a day, including the two you found in the kitchen.

when amplified Mexican Polka is de rigeur.

when you find three gopher snake sheddings in the front yard.

when you unearth someone's rock collection under the olive trees and it's full of fossils and obsidian and lava rock and lots more to be learned about.

when there is at least one or two owl pellets on, or near, the front walkway daily.

when you go to the local market and the checker and bagger laugh at the guy before you, after he leaves, because he bought soy creamer.

when the nearest natural food store is 23 miles away.

when you no longer wear your cute, homemade skirts because of the foxtails.

when you buy your knew wardrobe at the hardware store (20% off all Dickies).

when you dig a hole in the front yard just to entertain the kids.

when your six-year-old starts to teach himself to groom the horses by standing on the fence and reaching over.

when your kid can make a bike track that goes around and around the house.

when you have so many things needing fixing, so many weeds to manage and fences and water leaks to mend, so much housework and fly killing to do; while at the same time your children are undoing things done, and your six-year-old has skipped childhood and moved onto sassy teenager, and the kids hit each other and you contemplate hitting them; and you read Charlotte's Web out loud, barely making it through the end because you're crying too much; and your oldest tells you that the new house has more yelling; and the weeds grow and the buildings deteriorate faster than you can keep up — that you wonder if you like your life.

when right after you wonder about liking your life, you have your own George Bailey moment.

when your kid doesn't come running like he's supposed to after you blow the conch shell (and he always comes running)

when your littlest is wishing for magic to find his brother.

when you call your husband to say you can't find your kid.

when you've searched all the buildings and have only the driveway that leads down to the speedy road left to look at.

when you spy some knees sticking out above the weeds that belong to your child who has fallen asleep while waiting for the dinner guests to arrive — bike helmet and all.

That is when you know you've moved to the Ranch.

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Photo by the talented jo ann manolis. Thanks, J.