In my town, people wave at each other. It’s one of those index-finger-raised-slight-nod-of-the-head kind of things. Frankly, it’s kind of bizarre. I am definitely more accustomed to anonymity while driving. I have huge big issues with steering straight when I am busy trying to use the correct finger while acknowledging the car that I think belongs to the guy down the street. For me, it is an SUV vs. mailbox accident just waiting to happen. I told Brad that I refused to do it anymore. “What are you going to do when people wave at you?” was his question. “Oh come on. They aren’t even waving. It’s just a barely perceptible head nod and some weird gesture with a finger. Do you know how many people I have flipped off because I can’t remember to use my index finger?” He claims that it is just one of the things that makes living here so amazing. I beg to differ.
Driving in and of itself is a whole new kind of adventure here. I am baffled by the rules that seem to be common knowledge for everyone else. Any day now I am waiting for the unseen powers that rule the driving world here to decide that we are going to start driving on the left side of the road, but only on Tuesdays.
On Saturday I was driving along, going over my grocery list when I noticed that the car next to me had Michigan license plates. They got stuck behind a slow moving farm vehicle of some sort and I lost site of them. As I was cruising along, I noticed that the cars ahead of me were slowing down and pulling over to the side of the road. Six years earlier I would have been thoroughly confused by this, but I am now accustomed to this small town peculiarity. There was a funeral procession creeping by across the median, going the opposite direction. I have been informed that the proper etiquette while waiting includes turning off the car radio, removing any kind of hat that you might be wearing and you must immediately hang up your cell phone.
Brad doesn’t believe me when I tell him that this is not normal driving behavior. He thinks that I am being overly dramatic. Yes, scandalous, I know. Since there isn’t much else to do while waiting, I started looking at the people in the cars around me. I noticed in my rearview mirror that there was a car approaching at the 55mph speed limit and they seemed to have no intentions of slowing down. As the car flew past I saw the Michigan license plates. Finally! Proof that it isn’t just me who is clueless to small town traffic laws.
Brad rolled his eyes when I told him the story. Shocking. He was wandering around the living room picking up toys that the kids had scattered. I was following behind him being slightly less than helpful. “No, but you don’t see my point… it isn’t just me who missed the memo on this. They had Michigan plates… wait… what are you doing?” He looked at me and mumbled something unintelligible. This would be a good time to explain that my dear darling husband loves living here. He loves small towns and the sense of community. At work he is always buying things for fundraisers. He is known for being an easy target. He supports the high school, the football team, baseball team, cheerleading squad, various churches, some random preschool and countless others.
My personal favorite Brad moment was when he pledged 25 cents per bench-press that his friend’s son could do. Or maybe when he tried to explain to me how he was buying new tires for a go-cart that was driven by one of his employees. His explanation? “But my name will be on his shirt as one of his sponsors!”
As Brad was corralling all of the blocks I stepped in front of him. I gave him the raised eyebrows look. At that moment, a car pulled up in the driveway and his boss got out. Brad ran out into the driveway. I was intrigued. When he walked back in the door, he was carrying a 9” x 11” pan that was covered in foil and steaming. He sat it down on the table and uncovered a very large piece of meat. “Your boss has a job delivering meat now?” He smiled sheepishly, “Well, I kind of bought it. It‘s a smoked Boston Butt.” I blinked. “It’s pork. I am supporting the cheerleaders!” I looked it up on Wikipedia and it is, indeed, a cut of pork common in the south. I am still completely baffled as to how it benefits the cheerleaders. Even more baffling however, is that my husband would buy a huge chunk of meat that was cooked by a bunch of strangers. I know it’s a small town, but even he doesn’t know everyone. Needless to say, I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Well, that’s my take for this week. Small towns are completely foreign to me. What do you love/hate about where you live? What makes where you live special? Once again, I am going to issue a challenge. Write a blog about or do a layout about where you live. Link it here and I will choose one person to receive a special RAK from me. Let’s hear your take!
