Dreaming of a Country Life
Ahhh, country life. Running barefoot in a cheesecloth dress through the meadows, chasing butterflies, laying on my back in an ocean of wildflowers, chewing on a blade of grass as i gaze at the sky. Baking wild blueberry pies and setting them on the windowsill to cool - those big kitchen windows with shutters that open outward, where the neighbors pop their heads in to say howdy - or maybe a horse.
Sitting in rockers on the wrap-around porch, overlooking the gravel road and the odd battered old pick-up truck kicking up dust, fans in hand as the warm summer night closes in with just the slightest of breezes. The sound of fiddles, way of yonder, finding it’s way from a neighboring barn dance where unbeknownst to us, one of the McCoy boys has just received the bad end of a broken bottle. It’s been a long time coming though, he’s a bad seed.
The crick babbles in the background amid the droning of the crickets and the horny frogs (not toads). Soon, the only light that cuts through the black dark of night are the multitude of stars and the glow from the window of the shack on the little hill where Ol’ Tom Tomb lives with his teenage daughter. We try not to think about them though, because Ol’ Tom kicks her around like an old dog. Their dog gets better treatment actually - at least Ol’ Tom doesn’t climb into bed with him. The girl’s damaged beyond repair. She walks around town in her own filth, looking for hand-outs - which don’t come without a price. Popped out 3 babies by the age of 17. Nobody’s ever laid eyes on those chilrn’, they say she borns ‘em in the swamp where they just slide out and slip silently into the mire before they can draw their first breath. Some say Ol’ Tom’s wife is there to keep them company, but that’s just rumours.
Early to bed, early to rise. The rooster insists. Gotta feed the chickens, if there’s any left over from the foxes. They dig under the chicken wire fence and kill everything in sight. Bloody carnage, but nothing compared to a Saturday night at Baba’s Tavern. We only go there on Sundays, tippy toeing through the broken glass and passed-out bodies to our favorite little wooden table next to the juke box.
The bar is long and wide, made of maple. The mirror runs the same length and reflects the whole bar, making it appear twice it’s size. The mirror is cloudy, as are the vast pane glass windows, from decades of cigarette smoke. Sometimes we play pool, if nobody’s passed out on the pool table. Most of the pool cues are busted anyway, they’re the weapon of choice. Beer’s cheap, but flat and bitter. Flies often land in it, having fallen from one of the dozens of sticky fly strips strewn along the ceiling.
The odd local stops in after church. They pause between the swinging saloon doors, nothing but a siloutte in the glaring sun. But, they just do that for effect. We try not to look 'em in the eye for fear they’ll come over and preach the word of God. We just keep to ourselves, playing poker, drinking our warm beer and punching the odd quarter into the juke box.
The bar tender’s an odd sort. Long and lanky, dark hair and beard to mid-chest. Eyes that don’t quite focus, but that’s okay because you don’t wanna be caught staring at the ugly scar across his cheek. Once, i sat on an old stool at the bar and listened while he told me the story behind the scar. Twas a racoon. How disappointing, i was expecting a knife fight - fighting for the honor of a bar maid whom he loved from afar, or something to that effect. He’s okay actually, but he has a disgusting habit of picking his nose behind the bar. He tries to hide it by turning his back but he forgets about the mirrors. I’d advise you to never run your hands along the underneath of that bar.
At the end of the night, we stagger out to our horses, tied to a rail in front of the water trough. We always take our horses to the tavern, they don’t charge for impaired horseback riding 'roundhere. Sometimes we just walk 'em back because we’re too drunk to sit a horse and the swaying makes us want to puke. Ever try to get dried puke out of a horses mane the next day? Not pleasant.
Country roads take us home, to the place where we belong. The screen door slaps behind us and we head up to our nice soft beds of inner springs and horse hair - sans the puke. I brush my hair 100 times in front of the vanity mirror while Neil changes into his nightgown and cap. We set the rooster for dawn, climb into bed, turn out the kerosene lanterns, sigh in contentment and anticipation of a new day as we drift off to sleep.
At some point, we’re awakened by creaking sounds from the attic. Neil whispers to me that it’s okay, it’s just our restless ghost stirring in the night and we drift off once again to the sounds of the sweet night songs.
