Who You Calling A Hick? By David Leonhardt For
last time, I live in
country, not in
sticks. And I am relaxed, not a hick.
Ever since we moved to
country, I get
feeling you city-folk are confused. So here is a primer on what it means to be living in
country.
When you walk three blocks from your house in
city, you will be in another neighborhood...and possibly lost. We'll be approaching our next-door neighbor's front porch.
The neighbors are no trouble at all. Sure they play hard rock heavy metal blow-your-brains out music all evening...but
birds and
crickets drown out
racket.
Our neighbor across
road has a sign that stays lit up all night: Bert's Auto Repair. He no longer does auto repair, but he doesn't do sign removal either. See? We have a downtown, too.
We don't need streetlights. We already have
stars, thank you very much. What do you mean, "What are stars?"
You have gangs in
city. Every now and then, somebody loses an ear, a few fingers or a loved one. Ha! We have gangs, too. Our gangs eat
field mice. Bet your gangs won't do that for you.
Don't be shocked if you see a free-range skunk waddling across our front lawn on
way over there. We might not have major league baseball, but who says we can't have a mascot? And our theatre nights don't cost us much. Most of
crickets and lightening bugs play for free.
Sure, I'll mow
lawn. Remind me next month.
By
way, it's called a septic tank, not a skeptic tank. And yes, Irma Bombeck was right. And so are
weeds.
Every Monday morning I go for a hike. I tie up my laces. I put on my cap. And I grab hold of two heavy bags. Then I walk. And walk. And walk. And just when I feel like I can carry
bags no farther, I reach
end of
driveway. Yes, Monday is garbage day.
Out here, we ride our mowers and push our brooms. In
city, we hear you do
reverse.