Ahhh… there’s nothing like living in the country. (Insert theme from “Green Acres here.)
Sure, the lights blink every time the wind blows, and we have to tote our own trash to the dump. Plus we’re 14 miles from the nearest grocery store, not to mention hospital, dry cleaner’s, pharmacy and Pizza Hut. (If you get tired of cooking, your choices are Subway and the fried gizzards served at the BP station.)
We do have a general store (more on that later) and a dollar emporium where you can buy eggs, spray paint and CDs of the Statler Brothers Greatest Hits. (They also sell a $2 no-name mascara that beats the pants off department store brands.)
Ours is a town of 760 souls. If I’d lived here at 22, I’d have found a bridge to jump from. Now, creeping towards 50, I’ve learned to appreciate the intangible benefits of rural life. I enjoy our peaceful surroundings, even if we don’t have quite the privacy you might imagine.
Our front yard faces Highway 17-A South, the only game in town between Summerville and Walterboro. Thus thousands of unsuspecting drivers have seen me reeling out to fetch the paper in my robe, not to mention watering the petunias in my pajamas.
But, back to the good stuff. The church we attend is a block away. Next to it is a family-owned mercantile that sells everything from boiled peanuts to beer. Residents don’t say they’re going to buy milk. They say, “I’m going to Norman’s.”
There’s a sense of connectedness here. People have the same neighbors for 40 years. Generations of families live on the same land. If you’re feeling lonely, get up on Saturday morning and stroll to the dollar store, the post office and the BP. You’ll get all the latest news and everyone will ask about your mama, too.
During my daily three-mile trots around town, the scent of tea olives and Confederate jasmine floats on the breeze. Skeins of Spanish moss flutter from oaks that line the narrow lane leading to the town cemetery. Rabbits, red-tail hawks, squirrels and deer are often seen in our side yard.
When folks drive by my MIL’s property and see our goats are out again, they holler and blow their horns until Barbie and Little Baby Joy get disgusted and crawl back under the fence. The males, Old Bob and Ken (Barbie’s common-law husband), never try to escape, probably because their horns would get hooked in the hog wire.
It may seem like a one-horse Hooterville, but there’s never a dull moment around here. We live directly across from the police station, and speeders frequently get pulled over in our yard. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been weeding tomatoes in a tank top and dorm pants when a Chevy comes sliding up, followed by a cruiser.
Once a complicated traffic stop ended with three officers, two cruisers and an unmarked car at the scene, plus four handcuffed suspects sitting on the sidewalk in a tidy row, like ducklings.
I called my husband to share the big news and he said, “I know--I just drove by and kept on going to Norman’s!”
That, friends, is life in a small Southern town!
Julie R. Smith, whose husband bought her a burial plot in Hooterville (when she was expecting a tennis bracelet), can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.