What this story’s about is a particular shared summer home in the Appalachian Mountains. Years ago, neighborhoods formed out of our realization that we need nearby neighbors, whereas the old-timey hillbilly approach meant to scout out your own patch of dust.
North of the Appalachian Trail, hillbillies have mustered up a reserve of dreaded know-how. Those horse-carting hillbillies couldn’t see past an afternoon spent heaving horseshoes. They were more liable to digest glass than up their fuel intake. Carports were an afterthought. They came out of omission, then desperation. Sincerely, the hillbillies pretty much went anywhere they could walk to, so we’d generally drive around whispering a few threats in their vicinity or direction.
We smiled like car dealers. Which we were.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
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