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I just got back from visiting relatives who own a farm in Pulaski, Tennessee.
I love Pulaski, Tennessee. Especially in April. (Which, now that I think about it, is the only time I ever been in Pulaski, Tennessee.) Temperatures there are in the sixties and seventies this time of year. The hills are rolling, lush and thickly populated with deer and turkeys. The feeling is laid back. The whole thing is like a long massage for a jumbled, hectic life. (Actually, for me, it’s not like a massage. I dislike massages. They make me tense. Seriously! When a masseuse is grinding his or her balled fists deep into my gluteus maximus to help it relax, it hurts! Or, to be precise, it almost hurts, and I find myself tensing up for the expected pain that I just know is right around the corner.) But, you get the idea. Tennessee in April is like a long, satisfying sigh.
I love my relatives who live in Pulaski, Tennessee too. I truly do. Good, hard-working people with good, big hearts. I love visiting them, and they love having me.
However…
In this Tennessean theodicy, this Best of All Possible Worlds, as it were, there are a few…shall we say… glitches.
Now, some of these wonderful folks that I love so much read this blog. So, in order to keep harmony in the family, I at first thought that I would attempt to walk a tightrope here. And then, I thought…
NAAAH. Let it all hang out!
One of the afore-mentioned glitches is that Uncle Hollis, who owned the farm along with Aunt Marge, died thirteen years ago. (I loved Uncle Hollis! There was a man who could coin phrases and tell stories! He was the one who one time said to me, "When you go to Alabama, you have to set your watch back one hour and fifty years!")
With Hollis gone, the farmhouse is now occupied by Aunt Marge and Cousin Carol. And Cousin Barbara is a frequent visitor to the place. So, when Mary Ellen and I go down for a visit, the house is filled with Aunt Marge, Cousin Carol, Cousin Barbara, Mary Ellen…and me. Now, the observant reader will note that the first four people named in the preceding sentence are all of the female persuasion.
Please believe me when I say that I think that they are all absolutely wonderful women and magnificent human beings. Truly. However, when we are all sitting in the living room in the evenings, and I am listening to conversations about yogurt, flavored coffee, sun-dried tomatoes, pregnancies and past relationships, I cannot help but think things like, Good Lord! I’ve gotta get the hell outta here! There is way too much estrogen in this freaking room right now!
Hugs. They are big into hugs. Everybody gets hugged first thing in the morning. Everybody gets hugged when one of them has to leave to go to work. Everybody gets hugged when somebody has run into town to do the grocery shopping. Hell, somebody stands up in the room to go to the bathroom,and everybody else stands up too and gives them a hug when they leave the room!
That’s another thing. It’s really hard to be the only male in the house when it comes to the bathroom. You leave one little, tiny, microscopic drop on the seat, (GOD FORBID!), and you’d think it was hydrochloric acid! You leave the seat UP, and everybody in the house knows who did it!!!!!!!!!!!!! And then Mary Ellen pulls you to one side and gently reminds you not to do it again…or else! (It has always been my contention that I raise the seat out of courtesy and respect so that somebody who has to sit to "go" doesn't sit in a puddle. I believe that it is my job to think to raise the seat; it is your job to think to lower it!)
Another thing is that I have a hard time with their accents and their southern use of words. People are always a-fixin’ to do something. They just don’t do something; first, they have to a-fix to do it. They are a-fixin’ to start cooking supper. Then, they cook supper. They are a-fixin’ to go out and mow the lawn. Then, they go out and mow the lawn. They are a-fixin’ to go to the bathroom. Then they get up, get a round of hugs, and go to the bathroom.
I love the accents in southern Tennessee. I truly do. But sometimes, the accents get in the way of my understanding. For example, my name, Jim, is monosyllabic. Right? Three letters. That should be only one syllable, wouldn’t you think? Well, apparantly, not in Pulaski. J-I-M is pronounced "Jay-Um". Wallmart is "Way-Ull-Mart", and the word "well" is "Way-Ill."
Politics is an issue, like the toilet seat, for which there is very little tolerance with my Pulaski relatives.
However, that is fodder for another, future blog post.
This one just ended.
