I've been thinking about self-sufficiency and country living this winter. No insult to the wonderful Mr. Foxworthy, but there is a difference between redneck behavior and country behavior. It may be slight, but it's there: the absence of "Yee-hah!" shouted while doing any of these actions. So, if you happen to let loose that universal Redneck Mating Call, send a dollar to Mr. Foxworthy if you wish. And no, these didn't come from a meme or old email making the rounds: these are my own observations. If you send them on a journey of inboxes, please remember to keep my name attached; it'll be the only payment I receive.
You Know You’re Country If….
You’ve ever fried your clothes dry on the woodstove early in the morning.
Your lunch box contains a can of Vienna Sausage, a little pack of crackers, and a package of Ding Dongs.
SPAM is a special occasion meat, because you’re tired of venison.
You finally have to tell Granny she’s too old for canning because her last batch of peaches now look like radioactive lava lamps on the cellar shelf.
You have to explain what persimmons, gooseberries and blackberries are to visiting relatives, and why these items belong in pies.
You would rather listen to a radio show (yes, they still have them, whippersnappers) than watch reality TV.
You can sniff the wind and know that rain is coming.
Your dryer sheet is a brisk breeze through the pines before it gets to the clothesline.
Your driveway gets rougher in late summer because it’s filled with the green hulls of black walnuts.
The trees in your yard provide more food than most people’s gardens, and you’re willing to share the bounty with neighbors.
In return, your winter woodpile may mysteriously double during your weekly trip to town.
You’ve already walked a mile in another man’s shoes, because most of your footwear comes from the Salvation Army store.
Your toolbox contains at least five things no company makes any more.
When you need medicine, you head out to the woods instead of the pharmacy, so you can make Grandpa’s herbal remedies. No, not that. Hippies.
Tweets and Twitter are literally for the birds, and FaceBook is what happens when Granny catches you with the underwear section of the Sears catalog; see also UpsideTheHeadBook, AcrossTheButtBook, and AnywhereSheCanHitBook. MySpace is what you no longer have if she finds your collection of National Geographics with those tribal pictures.