Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Rural Kingdom

I've spent plenty of time in plenty of small towns through the years. I did a fourteen year stretch in my small southern Indiana town and have visited family members in their own little towns all over IN, OH, and KY. But there's a particular fashion trend here in West Tennessee (note it is West Tennessee, not Western) that I've never seen before: the predominance of hunting camouflage.

As a popular leisure activity, deer hunting rates second only to attending a Protestant church out here. And in order for deer hunters to recognize others who share their enthusiasm, they regularly wear hats, jackets, shirts, and overalls emblazoned with a real-looking sage brush and tree trunks. As it turns out, there is camouflage designed to suit all sorts of terrain--snowy mountain, grassland, bayou, etc.--but there is one particular kind that the locals seem to favor. It is an almost photo-realistic pattern that would blend perfectly with the late-fall mix of yellowed grass and gray limbs one would encounter in the West Tennessee woods. Hoodies and jackets and entire ensembles in this pattern can be purchased at Wal-Mart, but there are number of items sheathed in this stuff that left me scratching my head.

I found, for fourteen dollars, a pair of wool-lined house slippers in this hunting camo pattern. I'm not sure whether this item is popular or not. There were many on the shelf, but I don't mind saying I was sorely tempted to get a pair of my own. It's not that I want to hunt deer in the cozy comfort of my slippers (I can't imagine wanting to shoot an animal unless it attempted to maul or carjack me); I just thought the concept of camo bedroom slippers was so astonishing I wanted some. The slippers had rubber soles and were done up as a stylish (ahem) moccasin with leather laces. To their credit, they were super-comfortable. But, are hunters rising from their beds, camouflaging their feet, and journeying immediately outside to take down a ten-point buck? Are these used in duck blinds or campsites as a technique to keep a hunter's feet toasty between when he slips out of his sleeping bag and when he puts on the tall rubber boots I've seen that seem more appropriate to the woods and field? More observation is probably needed.

Also curious is the furniture upolstered in hunting camo. At Rural King (a kind of farm-burg Home Depot that also vends hunting gear and agricultural supplies), I discovered a La-Z-Boy swathed with the local pattern. This item, I would think, could not be used in the actual hunting of deer in any way. The purpose of such an item could only be to take a place of prominence in the hunter's home, reminding visitors or any who doubt his devotion to sport hunting that he NEVER ceases thinking about his next kill, even while reclining in front of new episodes of 24.

On the other hand, maybe I'm having a failure of imagination. Maybe hunters throw the camo La-Z-Boy in the back of the pickup, rumble through the woods to their favorite spot, and then haul it on their backs into the deep wilderness. There they would set it down and take turns sitting in it--in their own camouflaged jackets, gloves, hats, and slippers--barely distinguishable from the chair itself or the flora around them. They could enjoy the comforts of home while awaiting the arrival of the game the would ordinarily pursue.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Christmas in Dixie

If I can offer any advice to our friends in Chicago—or anyone else who ever lives there—it's this: Never move in December. 

But, perhaps it's precisely because we had such a hell of a time getting out of our adopted city that we decided to stay put once we arrived at our new home in Tennessee.  The fender-bender with our 24-foot Budget rental truck and a parked car, along with sub-zero temperatures and bitter winds set the stage for the worst moving experience I've had to date. And, I've moved eight times in the last nine years. 

When it became apparent that the diesel rental truck full of our stuff was not going to start—nobody thought it important to mention that you're supposed to leave diesels running all night when it gets below 20—my dad and I decided to get on the road—I with my red Honda and a back seat full of Jojo (our boxer), and he with our other car towed behind his truck. The Dr. stayed with friends, waiting for the truck to get warmed up enough to make the eight-hour trip. 

As we got farther down into Illinois, the snow and ice on the side of the road began to disappear. The fierce wind kept following us, though, so I had to keep a death-grip on the steering wheel with one hand while my other desperately tried to find music that made no mention of mistletoe, Santa or holy nights.

I think it's safe to skip ahead to the part where the good Dr. arrived in Tennessee, about 10 hours behind us, and we decided to unload the truck ourselves rather than wait for movers to come the next morning. It's not that we were feeling particularly ambitious. We just had nothing to sleep on.   

We had planned to head north again to Indianapolis and Cincinnati to visit our respective families for Christmas, but we underestimated our fatigue about a thousand percent. Instead we opted for a quiet holiday in the spacious three-bedroom house we're renting. As a woman with multiple sets of parents, I usually have to drag my poor husband (and dog) around to several holiday celebrations, each of which is cut short because of the one we have to get to next. While we like seeing everyone, we usually leave exhausted and frustrated. Being able to leisurely unpack, put up our own tree, take a nap, play outside with the dog—it's been in the 60s and 70s—was a wonderful, much-needed change of pace. 

We've been in our little town (pop. 919, well now I guess it's 921) for almost a week. I might feel a bit more anxious if I didn't love our house so much. I am reveling in the space, but also fighting the urge to fill it with furniture we've yet to purchase. (We just bought a refrigerator and a washer and dryer, so our furniture shopping is going to have to wait.)

The people we've met seem surprised when we tell them we've moved here from Chicago. Whatever would have brought us here. The answer is: a tenure-track job for my husband, and a job that lets me work from home. They also, without fail, warn us of the culture shock as if we hadn't considered that this country town would be different from what we're used to in a city of 3 million. So far, I'd say the biggest surface differences are: the availability of fried bologna sandwiches, the requirement to drive everywhere and the lack of alcoholic beverages in our county (except for cheap domestic beer that for some reason is suitable to sell at gas stations in a "dry county"). 

The people, while they seem to be worried about how we'll adjust, have all been quite welcoming. Our neighbor brought us some cinnamon raisin bread and a Christmas card, and invited us to her church. Nobody in Chicago ever raised so much as an eyebrow at our arrival. The college bookstore let me in to buy some presents even though it was officially closed. The bagger at the grocery store asked us how our day was, and we met an older gentleman, maybe in his 70s, in line at the Wal-Mart Supercenter who introduced himself, welcomed us to town and expressed his happiness that our Illinois Senator was now president-elect. I, for one, assumed that everyone here was disappointed with the election results. Perhaps in the weeks to come, I will find out that other assumptions I had about the South were wrong, too.  








Week One

With our first week nearly closed in this sparsely populated Southern burg (pop. 919), I have to give the whole place a B+. (It's odd how often I rate things with grades, though this makes some sense given my profession.) In my calculations, a B+ is well above average and teetering on the edge of an A (in most scales this is excellent), though many of my past students got all ugly and resentful if they earned a B+.

No friends or relatives have asked me what the town and people are like yet, but if they did, I'd say, "About like you'd expect" though this description might invite stereotyping. Many of my friends fled the small towns of their childhoods (usually these were much bigger than our current town) to live in cities like Chicago or Cincinnati or Indianapolis. They often point to societal intolerance of difference and religious homogeneity as motivators for moving away. That said, it seems like most often those who'd move from a big(ish) city to a miniscule town like ours would be returning, moving back to their hometowns after a time away. I suspect it would be like slipping between the familiar sheets of your childhood bed. Sure, it would be too small for
you at first, but the crush of memories and personal history would help lull you into some kind of infantile stupor. Fondly remembered family members and school friends would be nearby to offer companionship. In town, you'd meet the eyes of friends from long ago and be excited to learn what they've been up to in the intervening years (10, 15, or 20). We moved to a town where we have no relations and no friends. My grandfather (a mid-Southerner from KY) assures me that we can expect a warm welcome and, for the most part, this has been the case.

The owners of the house we rented are life-long residents of the area (though they live in the slightly larger town nearby) and, I think, are typical Tennesseans. We were invited to their house and offered all kinds of hospitality when we signed a lease. They volunteer assistance and information whenever we call or see them. Yet, I get the same question from every local: "It's going to be quite a change from Chicago, isn't it?" Usually, this query is accompanied by a worried look. I'm not sure what exactly they are worried about, though. That I will have a bad experience in their town and be disappointed? That my citified attitudes and expectations will act as a corrupting influence?

We'll see