Good country people

If I stand at my front door and look through the trees and over the field at my next door neighbor's house, I can see that they have a front door, but I cannot tell whether it's open. If someone were standing on the porch, I would be able to discern a figure, but unless the figure were cloaked in a sequined, red cocktail dress, I would not be able to tell whether it was the woman who lives there or her husband or sons.

"Next door" is relative Up The Valley, where we live.

A quick geography lesson:

The Village: The closest community with a recognizable name. In this case, the name is very recognizable, despite the fact that its year-round population is a scant 2,300.

The Hamlet: Three miles northwest of The Village, it's community in which we live. At the Four Corners - the Hamlet's central point - there is a blinking light, two restaurants, a general store and the volunteer fire station. That's two miles from our house.

Up The Valley: If you head north from the Four Corners, you pass about half a mile of closely spaced houses in The Hamlet, and then the trees become more dense, the terrain more hilly and the mailboxes farther apart.

The aforementioned neighbors are to my north.

My neighbors to the south live close enough that I can just make out the white-trimmed roof line of their cedar-shingled house and the woodshed behind it, but only in winter when all the trees are bare. The southern neighbors are a professional folk artist and his wife, who is a retired academic. They have a handful of grown children who all have impressive degrees and careers.

The northern neighbors - whose house is much closer - were described to us by the previous owners as very nice, "but country people." They own a good bit of land up here, and I've been told they sell it off as their cash flow demands.

The other day when I was shoveling snow and falling on my ass and crying and cursing, I kept hearing their front door open and close. Part of me hoped they couldn't see me struggling like an oaf. The other part of me hoped they would be so moved by my obvious ineptness that one of them would rush over and plow the drive or that a couple of the gargantuan sons would jump into his truck - the truck that roars out of the driveway amid hooting, honking and general engine revving every morning before 5 a.m. - and, I dunno, push my van up the hill.

Since they didn't come rushing to my aid, I assumed no one saw me.

Then the next day, Country Mom ran into my son and told him, "Hey, I saw your Mom out on the driveway yesterday. Looked like she couldn't get her car up the hill."

"Yes," he told her. "She was having some trouble."

"Yeah - it looked like she was having trouble. She shoulda come over for help."

Lesson learned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My HSH commented on my last post that I did not call him while I was struggling with the ice and snow. It's true; I didn't.

And I don't know why I didn't.

I can come up with a list of excuses. My phone was in the house. I thought I could handle it. He was at work and had plans to go to the gym afterward. It didn't seem like it was going to be that hard. I have a stubborn insistence on failing at things. Maybe I like having bruises the size of a place setting all over my hips, knees and arse - a dinner plate here, a cereal bowl there, a neat little saucer on the other side.

Next time I'll call.

Comments

[Brooklyn Mama]

I would love to know where you live - I grew up in Upstate New York.

We are having a positively balmy winter down here in Brooklyn, which is half nice and half disappointing.

[ppb]

I'm sorry about the ice, but a little bit jealous, too. Are we EVER going to get real winter?