Unlike the kale smoothies and endless asphalt veins of the more progressive thinking urban centers, the yellow brick road of small town livin’, greasy spoon diners, and sittin’-a-spell attitude is as sweet as the tea I’m known to hold in my right hand. Climbing the oak branches of memories to better see the past of easier times is an exercise in good mental health.
Days when dinner on the church grounds was a bushel basket full of fun, fellowship, and deep fried food. The social committee was run by the lady’s bridge club and we knew they meant business. The meals they concocted in casserole dishes and steeped in crockpots are legendary.
As kids hopscotch through the sandbox of country living, they learn lessons not known to children reared inside the big city limits. Wrangling frogs, crawfish, bluegill, and an occasional feral cat are embedded in the syllabus of southern backroad upbringing. Grown men cook pigs all night, swirl secret vinegar sauce recipes, and can feed a whole VFW Post from one hog who sacrificed its all to delight our stomachs. Honeysuckle vines are nature’s sweet nectar which we once politely shared with butterflies and hummingbirds. Tonka trucks hauled our little plot of earth from one side of the backyard to the other. The red clay mud puddles we trod strengthened our constitution to fend off any virus which dared cross our path.
Small towns are places where thoughts are encouraged to meander, ideas are allowed to simmer, and the pace of life is invited to stop and smell the Gardenias.
Front porches are a commodity, rocking chairs a necessity, and sidewalks are the pathways to friendships. Life is best lived beyond our front door, not sequestered by windows and walls. It seems as though we’ve divorced ourselves of front porches. Where we once perched, eagerly awaiting a neighborly delivery of snap peas, has morphed into rear patios, like hiding places from the girl scout paparazzi.
I don’t see folks lounging on front porches much anymore. Perhaps it’s because of air conditioning, mosquitoes or people just don’t like people much anymore. What once was an open invitation to sit a spell has become a medieval moat for solicitors and those who cycle two-by-two. The late Lewis Grizzard once said, ”It’s hard to get drunk and fall off a patio”. I believe that to be true and not nearly as fun.
Mass transit in cozy little towns south of the Mason-Dixon line is typically defined by the rear gunnels of a pick-up truck loaded with passels of little leaguers, leather gloves in hand, with sandlot dreams with hopes of hitting a walk-off home-run. Sprinkled about the acres of farm land and row crops are big green, red, and blue tractors that rumble down thinly laced backroads as if they own it. Loud pipes, lifted chassis, and oversized tires are essential equipment for those who embrace the monster truck life. Moms in grocery getters look different here. Absent are the european SUVs and Prada accessories. Here, we have country Cadillacs, 4×4 suburbans, which double as huntin’ buddy haulers, and an occasional modified school bus ‘bacca wagon when needed in a pinch.
There’s poor people, rich people, good people, bad people, and just plain ol’ people. There’s those who’s hearts are wrapped with a selfless desire to serve their community. We call them, “salt of the earth”, people. Citizens of all religions live here, but we know for certain the southern baptists throw the best picnic parties and the local Pentecostal Holiness Church can raise the roof as well as any WWE wraslin’ show.
County roads are named for patriarchs, matriarchs, war heroes, and first responders who’ve passed much too soon in the line of duty. We’re a group who deeply care for our neighbors, even those who’ve made poor life decisions and just need a hand up. There’s nothing a neighborly food tree can’t cure when convalescing at home due to some unfortunate ailment.
Time is abundant and it’s the currency of our lives. Without it, I’m afraid our souls would become bankrupt. We steward our time well by sitting still. Our ears delight in the softness of silence. As we ruminate on the sweet cud of country living, our hearts connect with all the gifts only a small town can bequeath.
So, grab a Rand McNally and find your next small town destination. Here, you’ll find a cold Mason jar full of sweet tea and a rocking chair reserved just for you. You may even meet a friendly neighbor with a Tupperware bowl full of snap peas. Slop some authentic sausage gravy on a homemade buttermilk biscuit, savor the gas station fried chicken just off Main, and be sure to stop and smell the honeysuckle. The hummingbirds and butterflies here are cotillion cordial and don’t mind sharing.
Facing Southward 