Divergent Worlds

I hope y’all had a great Thanksgiving. I sure did! I turned off the outside world of bullshit and enjoyed a peaceful rational time with family and friends; as is right and proper.

Today I’ve got a fun little story from the Holiday. Nothing too deep. Just a thing that happened. It reminded me of how divergent my actual local world is from the frothing batshit weirdness of the greater (and more urban) environment.

Thanksgiving season (it’s not just a day to me) is a good time to acknowledge the easy, gentle, respectful way among rural folk that one wouldn’t know about if they lived in a city or got their “news” from “journalists”. I suspect many of my readers know this but some might not. Here goes with a vignette of rural life:

We are on call: During one of several Thanksgiving celebrations at Curmudgeon Compound (I really went all out in 2021) my neighbor dropped by. Did they call ahead? Nah! I don’t answer my landline and they probably don’t know my cell number. I sure as hell don’t know theirs. They just showed up. That’s not rude. It’s fine and proper behavior; in part because their welcome is not overused. They rarely intrude on my life and I rarely intrude on theirs. I assumed they had a good reason to show up… and they did.

We respond: I immediately gave them my full attention. I care about and wish to support my neighbors. This feeling, I hope, is reciprocated. We respect each other’s charity by almost never calling upon it and also by not being assholes. (There are no Karens bitching about masks or HOA Nazis measuring grass length in my location.) If a neighbor shows up it’s not to hassle me because nobody hassles me. However, could be an urgent serious issue; perhaps livestock is loose or a truck is in the ditch. Or it might not be a serious issue at all, in which case it’s usually good news. Folks might drop by to share their excess tomato harvest on a good year, or to wave money under my nose trying to buy an old farm implement they’ve seen sitting near my barn. Regardless, I was immediately ready to give aid.

We hunt. We respect each other’s boundaries: They explained that they’d wounded a game animal while hunting. It had crossed into my property. They were asking permission to track it. These things happen. Normally, I won’t let anyone onto my property, but given the very reasonable situation and the polite request, I assented immediately.

We don’t judge (at least openly): If you’re running to the keyboard to bitch about how one never should take a bad shot and how you’ve never ever shot an elk but what it died within its own shadow… just stuff it. I too am very careful about hunting and I’ve never had drama tracking wounded animals. However, my day may come. Endeavoring to be perfect doesn’t make one perfect. I did not give him shit about a less than perfectly fatal shot. Especially in his moment of concern. He was worried about the situation. It wouldn’t be productive to be an asshole and make him feel worse. Six months later, if he’s a good friend, there might be some gentle ribbing. “About time you learned to hit the broadside of a barn… yuck yuck yuck…” This would be meant only in jest. Life isn’t social media. Shit happens. Wise people don’t lightly judge others.

Everyone is armed: My neighbor showed up in his truck. His wife showed up shortly after on their ATV. He had a crossbow; with which he’d been hunting. She had a rifle. I didn’t bat an eye. I don’t piss myself over guns. This is something that city dwellers never seem to understand but it bears repeating; almost everyone in every rural farmhouse in every state has every firearm you can imagine. Some hobbyists have enough firepower to give every man-bun in Manhattan a case of the shakes. Others have just a few. Some folks hunt with dusty old relics. Others, like my neighbor with his fancy new crossbow, tinker with new technologies. We think that firearms are cool. We’ve been buying them since forever. It doesn’t have to be a political thing. Every urbanite that buys a Peloton or a spiffy TV has a rural reflection that dropped his or her money on a rifle scope that can see molecules on the moon or a pistol framed in high-tech unobtanium alloy.

Everyone follows safe procedures: Rural folks aren’t stupid about guns. Nobody was waving things around like a dipshit. Unsafe behavior is not tolerated. Only inner city thugs and Alex Baldwin act stupidly with firearms.

We’re not the sexist, racist troglodytes portrayed in the press: My neighbor’s wife was dressed head to toe for hunting and carrying a rifle. I didn’t freak out about a woman with a firearm. Why would I? The only people that think women can’t shoot are men who can’t shoot. Rural people just aren’t jerks like the hyperventilating ninnies on social media theorize. I wouldn’t have cared if my neighbor was black, speaking Russian, or gay. Who would? It’s simply not a thing. The 1950’s were a lifetime ago and we (possibly unlike urban areas) are pretty chill. All I wanted to know was where the animal tracks led.

We’re equipped: He showed up with his truck and a support crew of an armed ATV riding wife. I grabbed my jacket and offered the use of my tractor with bucket loader. I have other equipment and was willing to deploy what was needed. Shit needed to be handled and it would be.

We’re effective: He didn’t need my help. He had a pretty good idea where it had gone. The animal was found in short order… already dead. I just stood around holding a flashlight while a rope and ATV did most of the work. In no time it was dragged out of my forest and onto my driveway where his truck was parked. Soon after it was in his truck. I got covered in blood during this process. So did everyone else. So did my driveway. If you’re afraid to get your hands dirty, you’re no help to anyone.

We’re thankful and try to be kind: I didn’t expect it but gratefully accepted their gift of a nice summer sausage from an earlier hunt. He didn’t expect it but had the offer of a bucket loader should one be needed. We exchanged local gossip for a bit and Mrs. Curmudgeon brought out hot coffee. Mostly we talked about the scandalous price of hay bales and tracking conditions in icy snow. I wish them well. They reciprocate.

Sure, it’s not all puppies and rainbows. People are people and I wasn’t guaranteed to have such great neighbors. Some rural folk are meth addicted fucknuts. (I guess it’s now fentanyl, whatever the hell that is.) Others are dumb as stumps and no fun to talk to. Just like anywhere else. But in general, we’re sane and nice.

“Media” talks about normal average American citizens in “flyover country” like we communicate in grunts. They proselytize about various government interventions to re-educate us. They marvel when we fail to vote as instructed. They shake their heads dismissively when we don’t cheer for the newest monorail construction project. They consider us, folks with a different lifestyle but humans all the same, as if we either are or ought to be subservient to authority figures and urban population centers. It has probably been that way since Rome sneered at uncouth Barbarians… but it doesn’t have to be that way.

In case you’re wondering, nobody wore a mask. I didn’t ask about their vaccination status and they didn’t ask about mine. Inquiring about such a private matter would be creepy. Also, if my neighbors were freaked out about the black plague they can indulge that notion simply by staying put on their land. Our paths need never cross. Going batshit about whether someone else got an injection seems remote and oddly twisted to us.

So there you have it. Absolutely nothing funky happened; for which I’m thankful!