Posted by: shellyweave | May 10, 2010

a little more country than that.

So I had a two hour class period the other day with one of my friends, and we somehow encroached on that awful, inevitable, insufferable topic:

The Future.

He mentioned that he was destined for New York City, the Big Apple. Now this boy is undoubtedly meant for the city, you cannot deny it, and he (incorrectly) assumed that I was of the same opinion. Not so much. I may not have a redneck, but it is most definitely a little pink. I was born in a town in North Carolina whose population is not ridiculously small, but minute compared to the city I live in now. I spent the first seven years of my life in the swamps of Louisiana, but still moderately close to New Orleans. The year between living there and where I do now I lived in a small area in Ohio with no fences around the yards, gravel driveways that lead to teetering old beauties, and a dense forest across the road where my uncle would occasionally hunt deer. And by occasionally I mean ALL THE TIME.

And then my dad got a job out in the desert, and we picked up and moved to a city bursting with life. It was a huge change, going from an old wooden porch to a small “yard” composed of pink rock and a pathetic excuse for a tree that looked more like a skeleton, but I was young enough to not really miss the life I had left behind.

Until now.

Nine years later and I am itching for a slower way of life. I cannot stand the amounts of people, car lots, malls, shopping centers, and worst of all suburbs, here. Row after row of beige colored stucco with the same olive colored roofs, perfectly manicured strips of grass deemed a “lawn” and two feet of space between my house and my neighbor’s, who by the way, I have never spoken more than two words to. Every five seconds I come to a red light, and the highway system is a maze of stop and go traffic and confusing snakes of cement that daze me. Even the so-called “rural” areas don’t do it for me- no amount of pasture space can help me escape from the mind-melting heat of the desert.

I said something along the lines of, ” I’m getting out. Far. So far. Small town.”

My friend looked at me, tilted his head to the side, and said “but this IS a small town.”

I, like the classy lady I am, burst into laughter. Meghan can relate to me in this area, being born in a town named Brian that no one has ever heard of, not even other Ohio-natives such as my parents. The city we live in is a CITY, not a town. It is huge, and sprawling, and loud. It’s a big grid of chaos to someone who visits family with such thick drawls that it’s nearly impossible to understand them, and I can never leave without the recurring twang to my voice. “Ya’ll” will never leave my vocabulary, no matter the amount of time I spend in a place where people laugh at the very thought that people who say “ya’ll” exist.

After explaining all of this to my friend, he looked around and said, “I don’t even remember that there are states like North Carolina and Georgia half the time.” So naturally the next day I brought him a copy of a book written by a third cousin or something, entitled “Reflections on a Mountain Heritage”. It has pages devoted to the correct way to cook a possum, how to serenade a newly wed couple, and the traditions that go along with ghost stories and family secret telling. There are tales of my grandpa Judd, and pictures from the old days, the simpler days. It was published by a small group of people who share my last name and is one of my favorite family artifacts. I laugh at half of the things folded into the pages, but they are my roots, my history, maybe even my future.

So all this to say that I am SO out of this busy, complex city as soon as I’m finished with college (in-state tuition really is appealing compared to the First Born prices of other schools I’ve looked at) and on to something smaller and friendlier. I want people that wave when you drive by, neighbors that know my name. Somewhere green and wide open. Maybe there’s even a cowboy serenading me in the moonlight.

Hey, a girl can dream right?

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