Down Home Country

This Easter I was planning on spending all day in bed when I had a friend invite me to go home with her to South Carolina (don't worry, I've rescheduled the day in bed). And while at first I thought this was a bad idea because I'm not in college anymore, and it's always awkward at other people's families reunions, I decided to go because I was so lonely I was afraid that Nigel was going to start talking to me (and you'll be happy to know that while my sanity is still intact--for the time being--I've decided to embrace my spinsterhood and take awkward "family" photos of him and me and send them out as Christmas cards). And, as it turned out, it was just going to be my friend, her brother (who I know) and her parents.


It was on this trip that I realized that I am a city girl. 


I always thought of myself of at least small-town-scrappy, but let's just be honest and say it: I have no place living in the country. I always thought I knew country, mostly because I know so many people who believe that being "country" consists of nothing more than barbequing, listening to country music and lusting after cowboy butts. 


There really weren't even that many cows. There just wasn't much of anything else either. The town's name was Ninety Six (written out, no hyphen), and it had (yes I wiki'ed in the car) LESS THAN 2,000 people in it as of the last census. On the way there, Liz pointed out the main attractions: the Fuji factory and the Piggly Wiggly. I've heard of a Piggly Wiggly before, but there's something about hearing "I've got to run down to the Pig" that is just odd. I asked her what they used to do for fun in High School, expecting some tales of country shenanigans--cow tipping at the very least--and she said "either went to band practice or stayed home. What? There really wasn't anything else." The "What" was in response to my incredulous look.


Upon arrival I was given the grand tour, consisting mostly of a kitchen that rivals my house. The next morning, we planned to go to Star Fort (apparently a relic from Civil War days and something about a dirty double-crossing, honorless, no good Yankee) when we got the news. "The cicadas have come out for the first time in 13 years!" I didn't get it. Apparently, cicadas remain underground for a certain cycle of years, this swarm's being 13. They were swarming the side and back wall by the thousands. The lawn, they assured me, looked like it had been aerated from side to side. Then her brother added "Well, they do make pretty big holes coming up. After all, they really are just locusts."


We remained housebound for the rest of the trip.


We broke this only twice--once to go to church and once to see a new litter of puppies across the street. The puppies were 4 days old and adorable. The child who owned the dog explained in a very strong accent how the only way the mother would leave them was to go fishin' with him and "then that crazy dog, why she just jumped right in."


Church was an experience of its own. I was hoping that I would hear somebody "testify" with a really strong accent and I was not disappointed. As soon as the meeting ended the entire congregation came over to a) Greet Elizabeth, by name, and inquire into all details of her current life, most of which they already knew and b) Find out who I was (luckily her brother maintained the proper--ie, 3 feet--distance from me on the bench or I would have been accused of becoming a member of the family). It was after everybody started filing out for Sunday School that I realized why things looked so weird: Not a single person in the room had had recognizable plastic surgery. Sure, maybe a finger or tooth or two were replaced here and there (though not according to my observations, but I suppose anything's possible), but there were no tummy tucks, face lifts or botox in sight. I was so unnerved I had to sit down.


During Sunday School, nobody could say Svetz, even after I spelled it for them, so they just started calling me Sister Lisa. That was when I met the woman I referred to on Facebook: Sister K. Sister K opened an animal rescue center and told the most appalling stories of abuse, neglect and plain torture. Apparently, (and according to her, so don't hate me Southerners) most of the South still doesn't realize that are consequences for their behavior, and she's spent a good amount of her time in court to make people pay for their crimes. The best, however, was when she told me that the biggest dog fighting ring in her area was trying to steal her dogs for bait. After a few foiled attempts, she tracked them down, moseyed on up with a 9 mil in her hands and a .45 in her belt and very calmly explained that if they ever went near one of her dogs again, she'd kill them. They protested "You can't kill us. You'll go to jail" to which she replied "Yeah. But you'll be dead." They've never bothered her since, apparently figuring (and correctly I'd bet) that she would have held to her word.


When we left that afternoon, after eating almost nothing for 3 days that came from a store--and I mean not even pre-ground flour--I permanently secured my place on the City Girl List by exclaiming (as we passed a pack of vultures) "They look just like they do on Snow White!" And honestly, that's alright with me. Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue.