Rediscovering the Joys of Country Living

A cherished memory of mine, walking down a leaf covered logging road, leading to a small wooden bridge, has always been my secret security blanket in life. It's a scenery of spotted yellow leaves racing red ones to dance together on the wind, while the sun filters through the bare limbs of a nearby winter tree line. Hence, the urge I've been prodded with throughout my adult years, to find another old logging road to traverse, just to have a chance to really enjoy the outdoors again.

I grew up in the country, building tree forts, rolling down pasture hills in a barrel padded with an old quilt. Not those of today, that look like they were all made in some foreign country, and are about as thin as tissue paper. It was the kind of quilt that weighed heavily on your body at night, the kind that lent itself to endless games of "I spy", when you couldn't fall sleep right away. Our rite of passage from childhood was earned by true grit and determination. We got our scabby knees and scared up elbows from being at the mercy of tree roots in a rusty red wagon, wrecklessly plummeting, at neck breaking speeds, off of what we called, "The Hill". This was to us, Niagara Falls, and it's red clay bank with a rough path gouged into it's side was our way of establishing our rank with mother nature. Jumping over numerous undefined snakes, spitting on stinging ankles whipped by bull nettles, picking off ticks, and beggar lice, and running barefoot were our daily rituals. I tell these stories to my daughters, just to let them know, Mom didn't rely on video games to have fun growing up. By the way, does Atari ring a bell with anyone?

Picking blackberries and plums and eating mulberries, and getting tummy aches from chewing on the dill weed use to catch the chicken chokers out of the ground with, was the normal kid thing to do back then. These days if a kid chews on a stalk of dill weed, or eats a mulberry, you'd better believe it's only on a dare. Just don't ask your kid what a chicken choker is, chances are they'll probably tell you it's a band. Actually, I think there is a band that plays old time fiddle and banjo music, called by that name. Once again, refrain from divulging this tidbit. Not only will they be unimpressed, they will be totally convinced that you are justifiably ready for the old folks home, and prompt you for the location of your will.

I fondly recall drinking from the "spigot", and eating the pears off the tree when hungry enough to do so. Raking the yards on Saturdays and hanging out the wash was just a few of the chores that were required of us. Back then, we were locked out of the house to fend for ourselves, and we did so with joyful abandonment, not venturing inside again until the crickets had started to chirp, and the sun had long set. I know I spent more time looking for arrowheads in the fields, collecting them in an old coffee can, than picking peas, and more time picking and eating strawberries, than pulling weeds. I found my first love, a horse, and spent many summer days riding bareback, flying around the pasture, with a death grip on her mane, trying to keep from getting beheaded by low lying pine tree limbs. I eventually went on to marry a country boy, and started to raise my daughters accordingly.

About five years ago the ground underfoot turned into asphalt. The nightly display of nature was washed out by the glare of security lights, and I found myself encapsulated inside a tiny apartment. My balcony was filled with plants, first living, then dead. The convenience of being close to gas stations, grocery stores, and restaurants each had their upsides. The noise, I tolerated, the crowds of people polluting the roads with traffic, garbage, and pieces of their vehicles, I finally learned to overcome and navigate, quite expertly. In the mornings I would wake up and fling my pillow towards the window, where a tree shadowed the spot, full of noisy, migrating birds. I had grudgingly become a townie. I eventually clung to the hazy atmosphere, and reveled in the hub of the city. It was only after I moved into my first house in a neighborhood, that time finally begin to peel back the hidden layers of my former life.

It was an old farm styled house with a metal roof, and was embedded in the curve of a road, on a very well traveled cut through street. All of this was down from the local fire station and ambulance service. I shouldn't have to describe the noise levels coming from the front of the house. The back yard though, was a haven. It was huge, and was occupied throughout the day by various birds, rabbits, squirrels and stray dogs and cats. At dusk, one lone hawk made an appearance, to ominously perch on a tree branch overlooking the fartherest corner of the yard. What really began to unravel my attachment to the city life, was the rain that would beat down on the covered porch. That soul stirring smell was like ripe watermelons cut in half, just waiting to be devoured. Remarried now, I started making plans with my husband to purchase a house in the country. It was not hard to convince him that somewhere, outside this fast paced, noisy existence, there was a more serene way of living. Not very long after looking around in the same parts of the country I spent half my life, we found the house, and got lucky enough to get the very same one I raised my daughters in. The gods were conspiring and plotting, and I was peacefully, blissfully, absolutely clueless.

Snuggled down, back in the country again, I made use of some free time to walk the field that once held in my horses. I found myself surveying the rotted remains of my oldest daughter's fort, pulling on the old barge rope that was used to gain access to it. Counting the knots in it, I reflected back on my own scrawny forts. This one was made for her with her dad's help, and I remembered how special it was for her to have him help her build it. Later, as I made a beeline back to the house, I walked right up on a cottonmouth stretched out sunning itself near a water oak. I don't recall how long I stood there frozen, my mind and heart racing each other, but it was long enough for the coldness of the ground to seep up into my joints. I backed off and found my husband, who kindly disposed of the snake. I use to jump over those things, never stopping to calculate how to come about their demise. Young grandkids and city raised dogs know nothing about snakes, and I was not looking for introductions, nor the chance to educate one about the other.

There have been many more recent revelations, getting back into the swim of the main stream of country living. Lets just say, the gods have been generous with the boat, but not the oars. The invasion of ladybugs, the wasps packed up into the stove vent, ant hills filled with fierce angry bodies taking over everywhere you look. A barrage of mole tunnels and armadillo holes have started mapping out the back yard, making the uneven ground dangerous to weakly old ankles. My memory, once obliterated from mosquitoes swarming in full army battalions, battling it out for fresh blood, has now been rudely jogged.

Simple country living, has brought unto me, a renewed respect for those yonder days. I've laid to rest that desire of walking down a logging road. Why should I tread it now? I know where it is, it is right across the way from me, just full of whirling, crunchy leaves and trapezing squirrels, and yucky, mushy, brown fungus, just waiting to be unexpectantly grabbed, as one goes around a tree. Yes, and I just know that the gods are willing me to give in and breach the entrance to that old road, and I'm sure it is well laid out with more joys of country life, just waiting to be rediscovered.