Country Mouse

Even though I have spent the majority of my life in urban settings, I still consider myself a country girl. Modern day interpretations of what it means to be a country girl often imply all things wholesome and tenacious. My perception of such a classification differs a bit. For me, being a country girl is an awkward, naive feeling that bubbles up whenever I'm thrown into a situation that feels urban and sophisticated.

Mind you, the urban setting I started my married life in was a town of 1,000 people. Hardly a bustling metropolis, but worlds away from the country house I grew up in that looked out on to the prairie. Night sounds in the country were filled with the banging of hog feeder lids and the rustlings of wildlife scurrying about. A towering yard light was the sentinel of security and illumination on our farm place. The day began with hearty breakfasts, ended with satisfying suppers and included two lunches and a dinner in between. We didn't worry about eating fat, clearing sidewalks or wearing the wrong shoes after Labor Day. The demands of the day were dictated by the needs of a farm family. There were garden beans to be picked, chickens to be butchered, peaches to be canned and weeds to be subdued. Meal preparation relied on the farmhouse cache and the weekly trip to the nearest town's lone grocery store. Life wasn't glamorous. Just necessary and practical.

Life in the city has a different heartbeat. There is a communal interdependence that demands a skill set that occasionally baffles me. If snow falls, one has 48 hours to get it removed. The sidewalk you paid for doesn't belong to you, it belongs to the city. Vegetation is more aesthetic than utilitarian. Water, fertilizer and weed control are used to maintain the look that neighborhoods demand. Retail centers are tucked into every available space, beckoning all passersby to come in and make a purchase. Streetlights punctuate the night with never ending illumination and vehicles rumble by no matter the hour on the clock. Wildlife sounds are limited to a few chattering birds and an occasional barking dog. Daily meals can be easily accessed with a trip to the nearest drive-thru, upscale restaurant or neighborhood grocery store. Supper is called dinner, dinner is called lunch and lunch is called break time.

Truth to be told, my years of urban living have softened me. I do not kill chickens for my dinner. I buy them in prepackaged trays at a grocery store that is less than two minutes from my house. I don't worry about getting into town because of the latest snowstorm. Snowplows are scraping by my house within 48 hours of a winter weather event. I don't need to milk a cranky cow for my dairy requirements. I can choose from 1%, 2% and skim (nasty stuff, I might add). I can find a gas station every few blocks when my vehicle is rolling along on fumes. I don't need to call the fuel company to make a trip into the country to fill a bulk gas tank for me.

Every once in awhile, though, I am reminded that I am just a little country mouse visiting the big city. My package of pre-cut chicken never includes the gizzard, a favorite of mine. When I step outside my front door I know that I will mostly like encounter human beings other than my family so it's time to put on a happy face and say, "Hi, how are you?"  My backyard is not a section of cropland, it is a tiny rectangle of carefully manicured grass.

So, whether I am in the city or the country, it is probably wise to remember the advice of Aesop's little rodent, "It is better to have beans and bacon in peace than cakes and ale in fear."