Southerners KNOW how to do houses. I do LOVE Southern homes. Enough to have wanted to move there. You drive around Connecticut and you see all these nice old New England homes that are really tickety-boo, and then bam! A cluster of McMansions placed any old way on sloping land and not a tree in sight. And the proportions! They are not designed by architects; they are designed by carpenters. Windows are out of proportion to the front face of the house, the eaves are too small if there at all, and then vinyl. . . Well, anyway, they’re sprouting up like bad mushrooms in every field that once held waving grasses, zigzagging stone walls and a friendly cow face looking over a turnstyle… Romantic New England. Of course nowadays people are against open fields, and they let straggling new forests rise up in them and nobody takes care of the woods thinking messy is how nature intended it. But if it’s all good—then you’d keep all your wisdom teeth too now wouldn’t you? Nope, forests that are let go look bad. Full of dead trees lying higgedly-piggedly, rotting, and spreading disease to the next tree and the next. Invasive trees take over. Vines strangle the remaining old oaks that remember a better day . . . And then deer multiply because they are not allowed to be culled. The populations exploded in Ct. and they ate all the rest of the young growth native to the area, so any hopes of natural undergrowth in the forests taking hold has been lost. It’s all about balance. Even house design. . . So back to Southerners. Here I was a yank of sorts thinking I could barrel my way south and buy up one of their historic homes. I had a lovely Tara in mind but I was scared. Other Northerners warned me--They don’t like us down there. The last house I’d seen had been north of Charlottesville in Virginia and it had a riding arena, a barn--but it was a sprawling non Southern looking house. I got out of the car saying to the realtor, “Ah—hold on a moment. This looks like a Northern jumble. Kind of like a log cabin that had another house dropped on it.” I kept squinting as we walked up the driveway trying to figure out what happened. “I know,” my realtor said. “But youve got to give this a chance. It’s got the horse facilities, land and it’s not far from town. You’ll see. Inside it’s creative.” Ah, that old polite euphemism for “crap.” Now, owners aren’t supposed to be in the house when it’s being shown. But as the realtor stuck in her key--the door was opened by a cross looking woman with frizzy hair who said she was just leaving. As the realtor went inside talking away my mother followed but I snagged the owner. “Hey, I hear a fellow Northerner!” I said with a winsome smile. “Yes, I’m from Boston,” she said looking unhappy. “How long you been here?” I dared ask. “Long enough.” I grimaced at the lack of restraint. “Uh. You know. I’ve been wondering,” I looked to see if the realtor was out of earshot and whispered, “People tell me they don’t like us down here. Is that true?” “I can’t wait to get the hell out,” she said and walked off. Needless to say, I didn’t pay much attention to her house. Driving all the way back north it gnawed at me. I’d already had had a strange bunch of calls with other hoity-toity realtors who must have fallen on hard times because they had hyphenated names sounding like they owned factories—you know, of the Muffy Cabot Lodge the third ilk. Had I only imagined their frostiness over the phone? Finally back in Connecticut I had some time to think about it and decided to make a few choice phone calls. I had nothing to lose. I dialed up a tack shop in a tony Loudon county Virginia town and a young cashier answered. “I have a weird question,” I said right off. “Yeah?” I could hear she was ringing things up and was busy. “Yes. I’m thinking of moving there and I’m wondering if you could answer a few questions?” I could hear her sigh. “Here, talk to my manager.” I started all over, explaining I had horses and wanted to know if it was hard to meet people. And if the community was friendly. “Our community is very respectable. We have,” then she mentioned some names of famous people I guess I was supposed to recognize but didn’t, “and they all come in from Washington on the weekends. But nobody bothers them. We’re that kind of town. Anyone top drawer could come have breakfast down the road and their privacy would be respected. We are very cognizant of that. Our tack shop also reflects the caliber of our patrons. We have handmade riding boots to order, tack imported from Germany and England, and even have lovely sterling fox stirrup cups among other really special gift items. People pop in at Christmas all the time for our tartan blankets from Scotland.” After that call I was feeling kind of sick. I thought, maybe I should give it one more try. I mean I was close to bidding on a Tara of my dreams but something was holding me back. And me? I was a fly by the seat of my pants kind of girl. I sighed, sucked up my courage then googled another shop and dialed. It was a feed shop. I started my spiel again about a weird question. The person was friendly and casual and had a sparkle in their voice. I asked what kind of shop they were. “We’ve got it all. From lactating cow needs to penicillin, buckets, pumpkins, hay, water tubs and we host spoon races in the spring for kids.” I felt encouraged. “So what do you think,” I asked leaning forward. “How hard is it to get to know people and to fit in?” I was thinking how in three years in Redding Connecticut I had no real friends except the garbage man. Lol. “You know, I said, me being a northerner and all...?” The girl took in a breath of air. “It all boils down to the cow church and the horse church,” she said like she was making a very grave proclamation. I was wondering if I’d heard her properly and was silent a moment. Cow church? All kinds of improbable images came to mind--cows in church, people in pasture, preacher on a roof. “Ah? What do you mean?” I asked tentatively, and embarrassed. “Well. It goes like this. People who have cows go to cow church. People who have horses go to horse church.” “And the twain never meet?” I asked. “No maam. Never. It’s an unwritten rule.” “So if I have sheep and horses and want cows where do I go?” “Exactly,” she said. And that was then end of Tara for me. A shame too. I know several southerners here up in Maine where I now live. They are wonderful people and close friends. If you enjoy these daily posts click on the author name above and then like the page. If you don’t see these on your news feed, make sure you comment on the story here. Commenting increases the probability of it cycling to you. Thank you very much... and the saga continues tomorrow!
Posted on: Sat, 20 Sep 2014 23:35:43 +0000
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