When I was younger, I hated living in the country. I mean hated it with a passion. It was hot as hell. Mosquitoes were bad. Roads weren’t paved. I could go on and on and on. Some of the things that I did like were; being able to get my hair braided during the summers. If you were a little girl with braids, well you could do anything. I’m not talking those braids young girls are getting these days. I’m talking your natural hair. Intricate details, colorful or clear beads on the ends. Wearing those braids allowed you to be able to swim every single day without the worry of your hair puffing up.
I didn’t have any girls my age in the neighborhood, so in the summers I’d have to play with the boys. My cousin, Ricky was always my sidekick. He was a couple years younger and well being that I was bossy, he’d follow whatever I said. I can remember many days sitting in his little red wagon, with him struggling to pull me up and down the street. This was not any easy feat by any means. The road that I lived on was made of gravel. It would be hot as hell. And he’d be just a sweating and I’d be sitting there waiving to the imaginary folks that were lined up along the street for my parade.
We would also get into trouble a lot. My ideas, although they were bright, got us into a lot of trouble. We’d get caught up picking blackberries and before you know it, we’d be out of sight. Down the street and around the corner. If you were out of the eyesight and shouting distance of the folks, then your ass was definitely grass. But we didn’t mind. We’d go from picking blackberries to picking plums. And those plum trees that we were robbing were definitely not ours. To this day, I can’t even understand why we picked them. They were still green and weren’t even edible. That still didn’t stop us from climbing trees to get one.
And since we were already down the street, we’d make our way to the creek. As long as I can remember being able to go outside and play without direct supervision, I’d always been forewarned about swimming in the creek. We’d heard the stories of little boys and girls who’d jumped in for a cool summer swim and hadn’t made it out alive. That still didn’t stop us. I don’t think we really felt the fear of death at that age. Ricky would throw all caution out the window and jump right in and swim. I was a little more chicken because well, if a girl jumps in the creek, it would be more evident to the folks. Especially when she returns home with wet clothes and hair.
But that didn’t completely stop me. I’d slide my jellies off and wade in the water. I’d go as far as the water would come up to my knees. I’d sit on the edge of the bank staring at that dirty water, bottles, tires and other trash floating down the creek. I always wondered what was on the other side of that creek, but never had the nerve to venture across. It wasn’t fear of death, it was the fear of God that my Aunt had put in me with a switch.
I bet kids these days don’t have a clue what a switch is. They wouldn’t even think to pick a small one and then get sent back outside to get a longer, thicker one. When it would get really hot and we weren’t willing to test the creek waters, we’d wet ourselves with the hose pipe. That long green snake provided much reprieve from the heat a many summer days.
And bikes. Man there was nothing more exciting than riding bikes. We’d get on those bikes and venture farther and farther each day. Me and Ricky got new bikes one Christmas. His was a little black BMX and mine a blue ten speed. I had asked for a red one, but I’m guessing the local Wal-mart had sold out. So I got a blue one instead. Didn’t matter to me, I took things into my own hands. I got the bright idea to spray paint it to the red color that I’d requested. So we took some paint out of Ricky’s garage and we proceeded to paint my bike. When I tell you that shiny blue bike was soon a spotted red dull mess when we got finished. I got beat real bad for that and my Aunt vowed that she wasn’t buying my ungrateful behind nothing else.
As we got older, we traded in the creek and bikes for Nintendo. We’d sit up for hours on top of hours playing that thing. And then Junior High happened. No more carefree playing and enjoying the country life. I’d started to understand the dynamic of male/female interaction. And boy was I a naive one.
Whenever folks asked what side of town I lived on, I was ashamed to say that I lived in Mitch. The country part of town. I wasn’t privy to the stuff these kids were into that lived in town. Funny thing is, I saw living in the country as a hinderance. It was far away from everyone else and while we lived on a Route, instead of an actual street, I somehow felt second class.
At 27 years old, I do a lot of reminiscing on those days. Of that time. Times when I’d run in the kitchen to see when the food would be done. I’d be disappointed to see what my Aunt was cooking. Beans again, greens again, rice n gravy, potatoe salad again, damn I just wanted McDonald’s or Sonic.
She’d asked me to watch her cook, so that I’d learn how to make a real gravy, gumbo, bake a pound cake from scratch, etc. Never interested me then. She’d always say that one day I would appreciate those type meals. You couldn’t get me to believe anyone reallyliked that mess. I never would watch her cook, nor try to write down a recipe. Even in college, I still wasn’t interested in home cooked biscuits on Sunday mornings with Cane syrup instead of AuntJemimah.
The after I graduated and started living on my own, fast food got old real quick. More and more I found myself calling home to find out how to make this or that. And no matter what I asked for a recipe for, she would tell me the ingredients and the directions to cook it, but she didn’t operate under no measuring cup/spoon type standards. No, she was from the old school. She used her best judgment and you know what, her judgment always turned out perfectly.
The more I ventured to make in the kitchen, the better I got. I soon found that I was a natural in the kitchen. The first time I got it in my head to make some black eyed peas, my friends were licking their fingers. I’d put pork in it and tons of okra. You’d a never known it was my first time. I never bought packets of gravy, no I believed in the power of a made from scratch rue. No instant potatoes for my baby, no I actually peeled potatoes and mixed them with a mixer.
The first time I attempted to make cornbread dressing, hell I messed it up big time. It was dry as I don’t know what. When I asked my Aunt for her recipe, all she said was that she could show me how to make it, she couldn’t really explain it. She did and this past year, I made my own dressing that had some semblance of the dressing that she makes. I’m sure it’ll take more practice, but I’ll get it sooner or later.
Whenever I tell someone where I’m from, they immediately say “Oh, so you’re a country girl.” Just this morning, I got the craving for smothered potatoes with sausage. Hadn’t had that in a long time. I used to day dream about “city living”. Wondering what I’d be like if I were like my cousins and grew up on the East Coast. Thinking everything would be better. Now the question I’m asking myself is better than what? What could really be better than summer days dipping in the creek, picking berries, playing in the ditch and trying to catch crawfish. Picking pecans out of your own backyard? What did they really have on me?
I can say that I wouldn’t change my upbringing for the world. So many gems. So many jewels found in living in the country. From going anywhere in town and everyone knowing your family. Walking around the block to buy frozen cups for 25 cent. Stopping at the corner store for as many pieces of candy that you could get with a nickel. Climbing up on the steps and placing your order for a snowball with extra creme on top and in the middle. Nah, I think I’ll keep my title. “Country Girl” it is and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
