Living in the Country

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.

Raccoon House Party

(A post done by special request, for Amy!)

People in the city often believe that life in the country is serene and peaceful. In truth, it’s more like Animal House, with real animals; I fully expect, any day now, to see possums wearing togas and chugging the homemade beer I threw out. In the myth of rural life, the silence is punctuated only by the gentle warbles of songbirds during the day; in reality, there’s three crows shrieking Vaudeville-era jokes in the tree above my kitchen, then trash-talking some nearby bluejays who are stealing bits of dog food right out from the bowl. In autumn, it’s turkeys gone wild, complete with gobbling calls of “Lift your feathers!”

At night, though, is when the real action happens. Every dog on the Psychic Howler Network passes news up and down the valley; my own personal Woof Blitzer announces the arrival of an armadillo in the yard, a statement that is discussed thoroughly by the panel at large.

But things really became interesting the year we installed a motion-sensing security light. At first, we set it on sensitive, which caused the cats to suffer from Britney Spears-like attacks of paparazzi blindness. After submitting Fluffy and Mr. Whiskers to rehab, we dialed the sensor down a few notches.

Enter the raccoons. With just one hairy bandit, the light went off occasionally like an overcharged firefly. As more began passing through the yard, the security light hit disco-ball speed night after night, and all that was missing was the thump-thump of an ear-splitting dance mix. My proudest wifely moment was seeing my husband out on the porch at 2 a.m., waving a broom at a gang of chittering teenage raccoons and yelling, “Get off my lawn!”

By the next day, the light was disassembled, and the dogs were left out of their pen to chase the juvenile delinquents at their leisure. The cats also recovered, although they refuse to give interviews. Life became slightly quieter, and we no longer needed those sunglasses past dusk. But I like to think that somewhere, a squirrel DJ is setting up in an old barn while raccoons hold up their glow sticks, and rock to the sounds of the night.