This was another do-nothing day.
But if you think about it, unless we go to town on Thursday, most of our days are do-nothing days.
We’re rural—but not deep country.
Still, it’s twelve miles to get to a store, a doctor, a park, or a movie.
This town died back in the ’60s.
It had stores, a movie theater, a doctor—but it couldn’t survive after they put in the highway.
Now, all that’s left are three churches, one beauty shop, a library, and a school.
No stores. No doctor. No movie theater.
Just the bones of what used to be.
And even the school isn’t safe—every other year or so, we have to fight to keep it in the community.
The school board threatens to shut it down and bus our kids out to the bigger town.
My hometown managed to live on after the bypass was built—and even thrive—but I don’t know what happened here.
Bit rambly there.
What I’m saying is: only Cowboy can drive, so Badger and I are homebound once he goes to work.
We just can’t walk to anything fun.
Badger felt a bit better this evening, after Cowboy went to work, so we walked down to the yapping dachshund house and back.
The meteorologist said we’re in false fall—the weather is amazing.
You actually need a jacket.
Or at least I do.
But it must’ve been too much for her.
She came home and plopped straight back in bed.
I try to be understanding and sympathetic, but I’ve never had this problem.
Also-Cowboy’s never given me the luxury of being down.
I had to suck it up and take care of the kids and the house.
He’s a product of his times and his raising.
Cowboy’s never lifted a finger to take care of babies or clean the house.
Cowboy and I agreed from the start: he’d work, and I’d be the housewife—the one to take care of the kids and keep the house going.
But I was 20.
He was 30, and already had a kid.
He knew what that meant.
I didn’t—not yet.
Not until the babies started coming, and I was knee-deep in newborn exhaustion.
For the first month after I had each of my sons, my great-aunts took turns coming down—helping me through the night, running the house.
By the time Badger came along, Aunt GG had passed, and Aunt BB was 87 years old.
She watched the boys while I was in the hospital, but I came home and went straight to washing clothes and whipping little boys into shape.
And I had natural childbirth.
No, none of this applies to Badger—she just got lost in the stream of memories.
Well, we found out why Van Gogh next door—Badger told me to quit calling him Prince Harry—put up a fence.
He’s got a new dog.
The dang thing seems more aggressive than the first one, and it barks, and barks, and barks.
He acted madder than a wet hen and yanked both dogs inside just because we took Lady and Duffy out to pee.
They weren’t out when we went down the drive, but they were by the time we came back.
Naturally, Lady and Duffy tugged on their leashes, took a step toward his yard, and barked right back.
Badger and I tugged them up the drive—so Van Gogh shouldn’t have gotten his panties in a wad.
If he doesn’t want us walking dogs past his yard, he needs to put up a privacy fence.
His yard’s practically in my driveway, and I’m not going through the front side yard.
Cowboy still has that broken-down car parked out front—it’s as big as a boat.
And his angel trumpet’s fluffed out everywhere, so we have to duck-walk under a spidery tree just to get through.
Things started out good with the new neighbor.
Cowboy loaned him a few tools, they chatted a time or two, he even waved at me.
Then maybe the reality of what it’s like to live here hit.
I don’t know.
Of course, we kept Lady hid—oh yeah, Lady’s aggressive herself.
We don’t go parading her around.
I’m not sure what’s up with Van Gogh, but I suspect the longer he lives in Ms. J’s house, the more he notices we’re a bit eccentric.
Hey, maybe he’ll put up a ten-foot fence.
I try to give him privacy when he’s in his yard, but the simple fact is—we have to go down through the carport driveway to get to our backyard.
My backdoor isn’t usable.
And Cowboy’s broken-down boat of a car hogs the front yard access.
Heron can’t even get to his RV unless he goes down the carport way.
It’s not my fault his backyard and my driveway are kissy-kissy close.
I think I’m chattered out.
Oh, I found out my freaky body can’t handle espresso from a K-Cup.
Who knew?
But—I found the secret to tolerating it:
Skip the strong setting and 6 oz, and go with regular at 8 oz.
It doesn’t quite have that zing, though.
Now I think I’m done.
There’s this meme going around on Facebook about a Southern goodbye.
.png)
I live in a rural community but neighbors are spread out, which is what I was looking for 31 years ago. I was born and raised in St. Paul and hadn't a clue what this life is like, But you can't keep horses in the city. There are three towns within six miles and the city is reached in about 20 minutes. Something else we looked for. It would be tough to be stuck at home without any way of leaving. I was 20 the first time I married but I've never been a housewife. I do take care of the house and yard, by choice. I'm picky! I lived in Atlanta in the mid 80s. I learned about a lot of southern things.
ReplyDeleteSandra, what a full life you’ve had! I can only imagine the shift from St. Paul to rural living, but it sounds like you found just what you were looking for—with room for horses and still close enough to town. I grew up in a small town, and while my area now is more rural, the neighbors are closer together, though they mostly keep to themselves. It is tough not being able to drive, but we do our best to manage.
ReplyDeleteI liked what you said about never being a housewife, but still keeping things just the way you want them. That kind of “picky” seems like a strength to me. My mom was never a housewife, either. And Atlanta in the ’80s—what an experience that must have been! Southern culture has so many layers. I imagine living there gave you a whole new perspective.