I’m a sucker for any online quiz that asks me a few seemingly random questions based on an algorithm that would insult any self-respecting quantitative researcher. I do not care one bit how reliable the data are—I just want to know what kind of cheese I would be. Provolone, for anyone who’s curious. I can’t say for sure the origin of this fascination of mine and my belief that I’ll be able to divine some novel insight into my identity through a social media quiz that almost certainly serves as a trojan horse for nefarious gearheads, but if we’re being honest with ourselves we’re at least a little tempted to gain a deeper sense of self-knowledge…even if it’s only to uncover what secret our favorite toothpaste flavor reveals about us. Recently I saw a quiz that claimed to measure “How Country Are You?” and was compelled to know on a scale from Loretta Lynn to Carrie Underwood exactly where I ranked.
After considering questions such as “If you could choose between fine dining at a five-star restaurant and a picnic al fresco, which would it be?” and “Is your dream car a vintage Ford F-150 or a Porshe 911?” I could pretty well predict the quiz results—100% country. I could also infer that the author of this quiz doesn’t know the full extent of what a lot of us call “country.” Now, I know it’s all relative and I don’t mean to dismiss other people’s experiences and truths about them. When I reflect on my youth, though, one I would not change or trade for any other, our “country” looked a little different from what is depicted on CMT videos.
Country life in 1970s rural SC included summer afternoons with a newspaper draped over my lap on the front porch, breaking green beans or shucking corn while my mama and grandma swapped stories. It was running the attic fan because there wasn’t central air conditioning and eating milk and cornbread for dinner because 1) it used up leftovers and 2) it was too hot to get in the kitchen to cook anything. Winter didn’t change my pre-school, pre-dawn barn chores. I remember walking to the corral, my path lit by a flashlight, and upon seeing the water trough frozen solid, resigning myself to added trips hauling water in buckets that banged against my legs, sloshing their icy contents into my boots. The most vivid of my morning chore memories was the time I woke to freezing rain and a horse that had gotten loose in the night. By the time I finally herded my mare back to her stall I’d fallen several times in the ponds of mud that had accumulated and knew my morning would get much, much worse if I traipsed in, dripping sludge all over my mama’s floors! The only solution was to strip out of my wrecked clothes and grab the hose, which miraculously had not frozen solid, and spray myself down before I went inside. Thinking back to those times and more, it never once crossed my mind to complain about the things that didn’t go my way, to sound the battle cry of youth, “It’s not fair!” or to think any of my peers had it “better” than I did. Because for all the time spent hauling bales of hay to the loft, cleaning stalls, and starting my days a good two hours before any of my classmates, my free-range childhood gifted me a life that most kids don’t experience anymore and taught me things that I’ve carried well into middle age:
- Everyone can contribute something, and everyone should contribute something. My parents were masters of doling out age-appropriate responsibilities. I might not be able to work a washing machine at five years old, but I could fold towels. I couldn’t run a lawn mower, but I could pull weeds. What I couldn’t do, however, was laze the day away in bed or in front of the tv while my parents toiled. This lesson was most important because it has shaped how I view everything. I learned that it is no one’s job to support me when I have the health and ability to do for myself, and it is a sign of respect to myself and others to add value to my world in the ways I’m able. I’m sure it’s the reason why I got my first paying job at 13 and haven’t been unemployed since.
- Imagination and curiosity affect how we approach any situation. The television was rarely turned on in my house except at night when my parents watched the news and maybe an episode of M*A*S*H or Magnum, P.I. My waking hours were spent hanging out at the barn, exploring the woods, or burrowing deep in the stack of books I’d borrowed on my weekly trip to the public library. By the time evening rolled around, I was sleeping soundly. This schedule allowed me the time and space to question, contemplate, and learn without the constant stimuli of videogames, Netflix, and social media telling me what I think. While it seems that a whole bunch of us now suffer the affliction of boredom and rely on the crutch of continual external mental stimulation, I contend that the feral child grows up unbound by those shackles.
- Country childhoods provide a sensory experience like no other: The nightly displays of lightning bugs during the summer, the taste and smell of tomatoes picked right from the garden to go on a sandwich with Dukes mayonnaise and Bunny bread, and the feel and sound of a fire in the wood stove, knowing that the pot of pinto beans cooking all day on top of it would make for a delicious dinner.
No, my country youth never did resemble a cute Miranda Lambert music video of gingham halter tops, hayrides, and meadows of wildflowers. It was more Don Williams, making ends meet, and Sunday afternoon front porch sitting with our kin, feeling grateful for all of it and promising each other to meet up again next week, God willing and the creek don’t rise. I dare Facebook to show me the quiz that can measure the value of that.
PartWolf 