..at least that’s what the bumper sticker claimed. It was on the drop in toolbox in the back of a beat up little blue pickup truck that I was briefly behind on the way home from work. The sticker had an outline of a rodeo bull on it and it shared the space with two other bumper stickers: “I -heart- the South” and “I -heart- R|+\^”. You had to see that second one to understand. It last word looked as though someone tried to scrape it off with something sharp; perhaps a pocket knife. I’m reasonably certain that it once read “I -heart- Ruth” before it was mutilated. I guess Ruth didn’t fare as well as the South. Long live Dixie, eh?

I’m not really sure what “I the South” even means. I mean, is it the weather they -heart-? Sure, it was 67 on the way to work yesterday morning (early Jan) but that was a fluke. Mostly, the weather is either too hot or too cold here. Is it the local flora and fauna? Is it the lack of Jersey and Brooklyn accents? I dunno. But it does imply to me a certain rural existence that just isn’t to be found in Atlanta (which isn’t really the South anymore anyway).

I have to admit, I’ve never ‘gotten’ the whole country living thing. I would lose my mind. I mean, how many times can you sit on the porch swing? Sure it is relaxing and all but I need more input than that. I understand that the country dwellers do more than sit on the porch swing, but the simpler life they live just holds zero appeal for me. You know, I’ve had country folk call me a city boy (which I am) in a derisive tone as they explained some finer point of mounting a horse or starting a fire or cutting down a tree or any number of other similar activities. And, you know, if we were living in an agrarian economy still I would get the derision, at least a little, but we aren’t; haven’t been for close to a hundred years now. I don’t need a horse, I have a truck to get around. I happen to own several Bic lighters and have several large cans of gasoline outside too. Trust me when I tell you that if it needs burnin’ I can make it happen. And, guess what? I have absolutely no use for the ability to tell the age of a deer that has passed through by examining it’s, um, droppings. And when I need corn or sweet potatoes or beef I drop into the grocery store. Heck, I even have some flashlights that run on that electricity stuff.

I mean, I like to go out in the woods and set camp and make fires and hunt bears as much as the next guy. OK, I was exaggerating about the hunting bears part, but I like those other things a lot. And I like to get away from it all for a week or two here or there like we did last summer on St George Island in Florida; there wasn’t a store to be found that carried more than basic staple foods within a half hour and not one that sold clothes within an hour and a half. But, you know, that was for a week. I can’t lie; by the end of that week I was positively dying to go see what items WalMart had rolled back the prices on this week. OK, so not really WalMart specifically, but you get my point. I don’t get how living a life where so many of your daily activities require far more from your brain stem than from your cerebrum is even tolerable. It just seems to me that your brain would eventually get tired of waiting for something stimulating, pack an overnight bag and wander off looking for something more interesting to do.

And, if you’ll forgive the tangent, there is the whole Southern Pride issue that is so prevalant here, particularly among the non-city dwelling demographic. I especially don’t get that. You see those rebel flags and “I the South” stickers an awful lot around here. Unfortunately I think the vast majority of those type declarations are thinly veiled delarations of racism. In so many areas in the South the “War of Northern Aggression” – known in other parts of the country as the civil war – hasn’t quite ended. In my opinion you just don’t fly a Union Jack in the South for too many different reasons. You know, I understand that the problem of racism cuts both ways these days (though it isn’t politically correct to say so), but I just don’t get it. Particularly where the Southern white man is concerned. I mean, you lost the war, move on. In their defense a lot of them just don’t know any better; they are raised ignorant (boy, if that wasn’t an underhanded compliment), but we all have a brain and a responsibility to use it. Enough about that. That’s a whole other post of its own.

I’m not making fun of country folk, by the way, in spite of the fact that most of them around here are rednecks or good ole’ boys. I know and like a number of them – in fact a few of my very favorite relatives are as country as pecan pie – though mostly the good ole’ boys. The difference between good ole’ boys and rednecks is esoteric. If you’ve lived in the South you understand and if you haven’t I’m not sure I could explain it to you, but I’ll try. A redneck drives down the road in his old pickup with a shotgun rack in the back window and tosses his beer cans out the window onto the road. A good ole’ boy drives down the road in his old pickup with a shotgun rack in the back window and tosses his beer cans out the window into the back of his truck. See the difference? I warned you it was esoteric. For both, the rebel flag is an frequent, though optional, part of the equation and the trucks tend to get prettier the closer to a city either of them lives, but they share more traits than separate them by far.

It isn’t that country people are stupid – they aren’t – they are just simpler. While I could stand some simplification in my life, that degree of simplicity certainly falls into the ‘too much of a good thing’ category. I mean, oxygen is pretty important for me as well but, even oxygen is toxic to humans in sufficient concentrations. Look up “oxygen toxicity” if you don’t believe me.

I guess to be fair, they don’t understand me any more than I do them. They probably wonder how I stand all those people jammed up all around me and all those red lights and traffic. Who knows, maybe one day we’ll find a middle ground. Until that day I’ll continue fighting traffic and deciding which of the 8 WalMarts I pass on the way home I’ll stop at to grab that last minute grocery item, and they will continue…I dunno, chewing pieces of hay and saying yyyyyep a lot (or whatever it is they do) and we will keep on, each not understanding the other.

Now, as for the chicks diggin scars thing, they could have shared that little tidbit years ago, back when I was still dating. I have a doosie on my leg from an injury when I was nine that should have gotten stitches but didn’t. And I’ve got a number of them on my hands from turning wrenches. And now I have a really impressive one on the forehead but I guess I can’t really count that one since my wife gave it to me. And here I was leading with the wrong thing all along and never knew it. I shoulda been showin ‘em my scars. Who knew? Maybe that’s why that girl in high school repeatedly turned me down back then. What was her name? I had the biggest crush on her. It began with an R. Oh yeah, now I remember, it was Ruth. Wonder what ever happened to her…

/g