Will Rogers once said, “I never met a man I didn’t like.” Actually, he said it quite a bit. It was his slogan, much like Avis’s slogan is “We try harder.” I have great respect for Will Rogers. If you’ve never read any of the many newspaper columns he wrote, you need to do so. He ranks up there with Mark Twain for his humor and effective idiomatic use of the English language. Like Mark Twain, he was not a simple kid from the country, but rather a skilled, funny and insightful wordsmith who knew his audience.
He said some clever things like:
There
are three kinds of men. The one that learns by reading. The few that learn by
observation. The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence for themselves.
Always drink upstream from the herd.
When I die, I want to die like my grandfather who died peacefully in his sleep. Not screaming like all the passengers in his car.
As loved and respected as Will Rogers was by the public, it is pure bullshit that he never met a man he didn’t like. I say that for two reasons. First, it is inevitable human nature to divide the world into likes and dislikes, good and bad. That’s the way the brain works. It has to categorize and stereotype in order to avoid being overwhelmed by the almost infinite variety of situations and sensory inputs a person encounters on a daily basis. The brain simply cannot process, analyze and make value judgments of that much information otherwise.
Second, and perhaps more importantly, there are enough jerks, buttheads and A-holes out there that it’s mathematically impossible to go through life without bumping into your fair share of them. I’ve never met anyone who likes jerks, buttheads and A-holes so I’d bet the farm that Will Rogers met a lot of people he didn’t like. He was smart enough to say otherwise to foster his image and further his career.
I don’t have that problem. I don’t have to worry about a career anymore, and I have no image to preserve. I have discovered that life gets a lot easier when you really don’t care what people think of you. So I don’t mind confessing that I’ve met plenty of people that I don’t like. I may even be proud of that fact.
Truth be told, I don’t think I can go through a day without not liking someone. I certainly cannot go through a half hour newscast without discovering there is another politician, commentator or celebrity that I don’t like. And every day the dislike list grows longer. By now it includes most of Congress, everyone who has hosted a show on MSNBC, most of the names on the Hollywood A list, virtually the entire state of California and everyone who works for the satellite internet service that provides such poor service to me. I’ve never really taken a tally, but I venture to say that I dislike more people than I like.
Which brings me to my topic and that is how nice and polite people are here in Fannin County and how hard it is to find people I really dislike. I’m not just saying that. It’s true. Virtually everyone I’ve met in the almost two years I’ve lived here has been nice, polite, welcoming and friendly. At first, it was disconcerting and a little overwhelming but now I’ve grown accustomed to it. I’ve even started trying to be nice myself. I make a point of smiling at least once a week. It’s a work in progress.
Since I am unable to accept anything on face value, I’ve spent considerable time trying to figure out why there are so many nice and likable people here and why it’s so hard to dislike them. I’ve concluded that it has a lot to do with the innate nature of rural areas and a small towns.
There are less than 25,000 people in Fannin County. As a consequence, you do not have the anonymity that you have in a more populous area, and there is a greater feeling of community. The circles are smaller. Everyone knows everyone else. Sometimes it feels like they are all related to each other. Instead of six degrees of separation there are probably only two or three. If there is any truth to the saying “what goes about comes about,” what goes about is more likely to come about a lot quicker here than in a highly populated area.
All of which means that people try to get along a little more here than in big cities and crowded suburbia. My analogy is this. If you’re on a big cruise ship you’re less likely to accommodate and accept the perceived flaws, foibles and weaknesses of others than you would be if you were together on a life raft with six other people.
I may be going out on a limb here, but I suspect that being nice, polite, welcoming and friendly are qualities that are common to most rural areas and small towns in this country. You always hear about people from big cities coming back from a visit to the Midwest and commenting that people there are so nice and friendly. By and large the Midwest is a place of small towns and rural communities. That may account for why they are perceived as being nice and friendly.
Regardless, if you are naturally abrasive, obnoxious and rude you should think twice about moving to a small town or a rural area. The odds are that you will not fit in.
By now you are probably wondering how I’ve made it through two years without being banned, shunned, tarred or feathered since I’m no Will Rogers. To tell the truth, that’s actually kind of a mystery to me. It either proves that people really are nice, polite and friendly around here or it demonstrates an amazing lack of perception. Either way, I’ll take it.
As much as I like living in rural North Georgia, I have to concede that there are certain things about living in a more populated area that I miss. Doing without these things may be the price you pay for living in the country.
If you like ethnic food, Fannin County is not the place to be. Aside from a few Italian and Mexican places, there are not a lot of small, convenient ethnic restaurants around here. You have to travel to another county to get Chinese, Cuban or Thai food. As for Greek food, forget about it. I don’t think there is a Greek restaurant north of Atlanta.
The absence of local ethnic restaurants is somewhat of a mystery to me given the number of tourists who visit Fannin County and the number of people from Atlanta, Florida and other points south who have moved here or have second homes here. Surely they bring their appetite for something other than barbeque, southern home cooking and country buffet food with them when they come.
While we’re on the subject of food, the concept of fast food seems to have escaped the owners, operators and employees of many of Fannin County’s fast food restaurants. There is a Taco Bell in town that may well be living proof that there are alternate universes where time moves at a different pace. The McDonald’s in Blue Ridge is not going to set any records for fast service.
I speculate that the slowness of local fast food restaurants may be related to the concept of Georgia time where things are done in their own due time. It took Meredith and me a little while to understand that when a repairman or delivery person says he’ll be out tomorrow, that’s to be taken as a general indication that you’re on his list and not as a promise that he’ll actually arrive in the morrow. It really means that he’ll get to you some time in the next few days.
Looking on the positive side, if you’re seeking a slow-paced, unhurried existence or want to test whether you have learned patience in retirement all you have to do is order a meal at a local fast food restaurant. While a slow-paced, unhurried lifestyle was one of the many reasons I moved here, it’s become apparent that I need to work on the patience thing. Not unreasonably, I want my morning cup of coffee at McDonald’s now while it’s still morning.
I miss having a convenient Barnes & Noble or Book-A-Million store to go to. While I can always order books online, nothing beats wandering through a book store and perusing titles. I’ve stumbled across so many interesting books and subjects that way. Unfortunately, the nearest Barnes & Noble bookstore is in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Speaking of entertainment, it would be great if there was a movie theater in Fannin County. The only way to see first run movies around here is to drive to the next county or go to the local drive-in movie theater. I’m told the Star Drive-in is a great place, and I know that it shows first run feature films (as opposed to the second rate B-movie horror flics that are standard drive-in movie fare).
The problem is that I used to go to drive-in movie theaters when I lived in Kentucky many years ago, and as I remember it, the last thing one does at a drive-in is watch the movie. What I remember about the experience is a lot of back seat grappling with dates, sneaking around and sticking potatoes up tailpipes, drinking beer and shooting the shit with friends. I don’t think I can really get into a movie at a drive-in, and I’m too old and arthritic to be grappling with Meredith in the back seat of a car.
We could use some more radio stations around here. I listen to the radio as I drive around. Unfortunately the station choices are limited. There are about a dozen religious stations, several country stations, and two Latino stations to choose from.
For the most part, the religious stations are hell fire and brimstone Baptist stations and not what I consider entertainment. The country stations are okay, but the selections get repetitious after a while. What’s odd about the Latino stations is that they come in loud and strong as if they were broadcasting with a lot of power or located nearby. As far as I can tell, there are not a lot of Latinos in this area or at least not enough to justify having a powerful Latino radio station. There’s nothing wrong with Latino music, but a little marimba music goes a long way if you know what I mean. We could really use a good classic rock station, a good 24-hour news channel, and a good talk radio station, but I’m not going to hold my breath.
I guess the lesson to be learned here is that there are trade-offs in life. You can’t have it all, and on the whole, I’d rather live in rural Fannin County without having a lot of ethnic restaurant choices, prompt fast food restaurants, a big bookstore, an indoor movie theater and better radio stations than live in a more populated area where all those things exist. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t kill for a good gyro or a plate of pad thai right now.
I recently wrote about the perils of picking vegetables from my garden. I discovered another one yesterday. It was early in the morning, and I was out in the garden picking beans. I stepped on something. It took a second for it to register that whatever was under my foot was soft and squishy. I looked down and saw that I had placed my foot on a big ass snake. When I say big ass snake, I mean it. That may be the scientific name for the snake I stepped on. It was at least four feet long.
I immediately set the world record for the backwards hop, skip and jump while wearing large rubber boots and squealing like a little girl. Actually, that’s a bit of artistic license on my part. I did not squeal like a little girl. I believe my exact words were “holy shit” as I backpedaled like a mofo in the general direction of the okra.
Once I was over my surprise I realized it was not a poisonous snake. If had to guess, and it is a guess, I’d say it was some type of black snake. That stunning analysis is based on the fact it was a snake and it was black. Even though I’m not sure what type of snake it was, I think it’s a good thing to have a snake like that hanging around a garden because it probably eats field mice and voles, both of which nibble on plants. I’d be happy to have resident snake that ate moles, but I would probably draw the line on one large enough to eat a groundhog. One thing’s for damn sure—I’m not going to be reaching blindly under the squash and pumpkin leaves any time soon.
Turning to another subject, some people around here have not taken kindly to the recent controversy over the display of the Confederate battle flag. Lately I’ve seen a lot of pickup trucks driving around with large versions of the Stars and Bars or the old Georgia State Flag waving from the back bed.
I suspect that some of the flags I’ve seen were purchased from roadside souvenir stands. A couple of the flags had the face of Hank Williams Jr. superimposed on the Stars and Bars, at least one had the face Robert E. Lee on it and one may have had the face of P.T. Beauregard. It was either P.T. Beauregard or Colonel Sanders—they’re easy to confuse. (As an aside, the new Colonel Sanders in the K.F.C. commercials is the creepiest corporate spokesman I’ve ever seen. He looks more like an aging pedophile than a genuine Kentucky Colonel. I bet his secret ingredients include a raincoat and a piece of candy. Whose idea was it to have your corporate rep dress up like a member of the slave owning aristocracy in the anti-bellum south? I bet that will increase K.F.C.’s market share in black neighborhoods. As my kids were fond of saying when they were young: smooth move, Ex-Lax.)
Liberal Eastern Establishment metrosexuals, Hollywood liberals, “progressive” Ivy League professors and everyone who ever voted for Debbie Wasserman Schultz are quick to label people who ride around with the Confederate battle flag as ignorant rubes, rednecks and racists. They undoubtedly agree with Obama’s arrogant and dismissive assertion that country folk continue to cling to their guns and religion. I’d like to invite them to Fannin County so they can kiss my ass.
My observation is that most of the people displaying the Confederate battle flag on the back of their battered pickups are men. My guess is that most of them do not have college degrees, have lived in North Georgia all their life and have blue collar jobs.
But they are not rubes and they are not ignorant; they simply have a completely different skill set than you are likely to find among similar aged males in metropolitan areas. Collectively they know how to fish and hunt, fix a small engine, shingle a roof, fix a leaky toilet, dress and butcher a deer, makes sausage and so many other things that so-called sophisticated and educated city-types are unable to do. They may not know the difference between Chardonnay and Beaujolais or whether narrow ties are in or out this year, but they can discuss the finer points of good barbeque and know the difference between a Caroline-rigged plastic worm and a Texas-rigged one.
And yes, they do believe strongly in God and guns, and as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing wrong with that. They also believe in country. These are the people who fight our wars by making up a disproportionate part of our military. And I’ll tell you this with all sincerity: if I was going to go into harm’s way with my ass on the line, I’d rather have them standing behind me and protecting my flanks than all the namby-pamby metrosexuals in the Northeast.
I understand how the flag can represent slavery and racism to some people. I also understand how the flag can represent history and heritage to others. More than anything, I suspect that the recent proliferation of Confederate flags in this area is not motivated out of racism or a desire for white supremacy as much as it’s a protest by a proud people against smothering political correctness. It’s beginning to feel like the thought police have taken over American society and are intent on dictating every aspect of how you think, speak, act and view and interpret history.
I don’t know. I’m probably in over my head here, and all this deep thinking and analysis is starting to give me a headache. It’s time to grab a beer, munch on a Slim Jim and watch a rerun of Hee Haw. I guess that will tell you where my sympathies lie.
I am learning that a large garden in the country is an open invitation for a variety of critters and creatures to come and feast. Hungry beasties flock to it like college kids flock to half price night at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
So far I’ve had to contend with deer and moles attacking the garden, not to mention a variety of ravenous insects. Now the garden is being stalked by a groundhog. I’m beginning to feel that the circle of life that Walt Disney made a central theme of the movie “The Lion King” is really a maneuver by nature to get behind my back and bite me on the ass.
If you’re not already aware, a groundhog looks like a small beaver without a flat tail. Up north they’re called woodchucks. According to Wikipedia, they’re also called whistlepigs in some places. They’re plentiful in North Georgia, and I see them all the time as I drive around Fannin County.
To use a phrase that we seem to be hearing a lot these days, a groundhog is an existential threat to a garden. (There has been debate in the news media lately about whether ISIS is an “existential” threat to this country. When I first heard the term I had no idea what it meant. The first thing that flashed in my mind was that the United States was under attack from Islamic terrorists quoting Kierkegaard and Sartre. How dangerous can that be? To my knowledge, no one has ever been killed by a philosophy bomb. Then I did some research and learned that an existential threat is a threat to something’s survival.)
I’ve seen the damage that a groundhog can do. The Feed Fannin group that I belong to has a large garden where it grows vegetables to donate to the local food pantry. Just one groundhog wiped out the garden’s entire crop of cabbage in a matter of a few weeks this summer. The way I see it, that the groundhog took food from the mouths of hungry families with babies and small children. Think about that the next time you see a PETA commercial or feel a twinge of sympathy for a furry woodland creature. In fact, that’s going to be my rallying cry in the battle with Mr. Groundhog: Remember the Cabbages! It doesn’t quite have the same ring as Remember the Maine or Remember the Alamo but it’s the best I can do on short notice.
I am not a live and let live type of guy, and I’m not about to let a groundhog get at my garden. It’s time to circle the wagons, man the barricades, fight the good fight, put on my big boy pants and all other clichés that slip my mind right now.
I spent two days last week zeroing in my .22 rifles and stashing them at convenient locations in the cabin so I can grab them when Mr. Groundhog is spotted. Some of you may think it’s a little odd having a rifle leaning beside every exterior door to my house, but it’s not like we have a lot of next door neighbors dropping by unexpectedly to borrow a cup of sugar. Besides, I kind of like the look. I thinking of calling it Early American Survivalist or maybe Ruby Ridge Revival. And there’s nothing like the smell of Hoppe’s No. 9 as you’re drinking your morning coffee.
I’ll say this for Mr. Groundhog—he’s not like a lousy mole that burrows underground. Mr. Groundhog stays above ground. He sneaks from the wood line at dawn and dusk and crawls through the field towards the garden. He’s crafty and alert and scurries back to the protection of the woods if he detects danger or unusual movement. It will not be easy to take him out. I figure that makes it a fair fight, mano y mano, or maybe that should be mano y varmito.
Not that I believe in fighting fair. To paraphrase Barry Goldwater, extremism in defense of vegetables is no vice. I’ve cleared fields of fire by mowing the grass in the field surrounding my garden to deprive the groundhog of cover if he tries to sneak into the garden. If they were available to the general public I’d be tempted to buy trip mines and Predator drones.
Meredith or I are on heightened alert. We have gotten in the habit of getting up and looking out the front and side windows every few minutes hoping to spot the groundhog creeping towards the garden. To be honest, the constant up and down and peering out the windows is getting to be a pain in the ass. We look like a family of meerkats with all that bobbing up and down, and our little dog is starting to get paranoid that there might be something dangerous outside.
The way things have gone this summer makes me wonder what nature will throw at me next. A hoard of rabbits or a plague of locusts can’t be too far off. Hell, at this point I wouldn’t be surprised if a herd of buffalo came over the hill. But I’m not going to complain too loudly. I moved here for that authentic rural experience, and I’d say that I’m getting it.
