My Country Home

Some people dream of a home in the country. I think that I’ve had one for the last five years. When I moved to Gainesville, I didn’t know that the city was a glorified cow pasture (or pony pasture) with an institute of higher knowledge planted firmly in the center. It took a lot of getting used to.

I learned a lot in my first year here. I learned that the sporting goods aisle at Wal-mart practically shuts down in October in conjunction with the opening of deer season. I also learned that in Alachua County, the word “hunting” doesn’t end in G; the correct pronunciation is huntin’. I learned that turkeys have beards (an honest-to-God clump of long hair that sprouts of their chests).

I learned that fixin can be a noun or a verb. I learned that people make fun of ACRs (Alachua County Residents), ACRs make fun of people from Gilchrist County, and everyone makes fun of people from Dixie County. I learned that even though I was born in Florida, I am still a Yankee. I learned that the farther north in Florida you drive, the more “southern” the people get.

I learned how to pee off the back of a boat (even though I never did it). I learned the reason for four door cars is so that when you pull over on the side of the road to let your children pee, you open the front and back doors and let your child squat between for privacy (I’ve never done that either). I learned that when you refuse the pee off the back of a boat, and you use the facilities of a house along the riverside, and you want to wash your hands, you should always make sure the plumbing is hooked up before you run water into a stranger’s sink (and out under the sink all over the floor).

I’ve fallen in love with charming southern speech. I work with a Southern Gentleman. Not just a man from the south, but an honest-to-goodness Southern Gentleman. He says things like, “I don’t mean this ugly,” followed by something that could only be described as a little bit ugly. Brent says things like “Golly Bill” or after a long story “I really chased the rabbit on that one.” It even sounds southern sweet when he swears (“Sheeit”). I met a friend’s boyfriend who told me that if he were to only eat what my friend cooked, he’d be “nothing left but breath and britches.” There is a lot of descriptive charm in the way that southerners speak.

So, I’ve been in Gainesville just shy of five years, and I feel more in touch with my Southern roots than I have in the last 14 in years living in Florida. I went to a picnic last weekend, and I saw eight men spread around a gigantic grill made from a metal trailer and big pieces of grating. I saw a truckload of good ol’ boys cooking up a truckload of corn on the cob. I ate corn on the cob with the husk pulled back and wrapped in a buttery paper towel. I washed it down with a glass of sweet tea.

This Florida Yankee felt like a native.

My menagerie

Signs of springtime are all around my house. My clocks have all been set forward one hour, the azalea bushes are blooming, birds are singing, and the temperature is creeping upward. Spring has arrived. You know how I can tell? The lizards that live outside my front door when the weather is warm are trying to sneak into my apartment.

That is how I got my pet. Have I told you about him? I made a deal with the lizard that snuck into my apartment last year. I spent the first two days of his residency chasing him around my apartment with a plastic cup. I would hear something rustle from the corner, and spot this lizard climbing on the edge of a book or a picture frame or a vase. I would charge, with a big, blue plastic cup in one hand and a sales flier in the other, planning to scoop, cover, and release.

No luck. I couldn’t catch him. He was wily. I busted out my Dustbuster and threatened loudly in the general direction of the rustling. If he refused to go quietly (in a plastic cup), he could go loudly, under the roar of suction – a Dustbuster eviction.

Then I reasoned with him. He was oddly cute. I agreed to allow him to be my pet, under the condition that he never pop out unexpectedly and scare me. He is not allowed to touch me or any of my most precious possessions (read: “my pillows”) at any time. If he breaks any of my rules, he will be vacuumed.

I named him Stanley, and he lives under my couch.

Stanley is only the beginning of the menagerie that lives in and around my apartment. The lizards are plentiful, and so are the frogs. Scott and I came back to my apartment on a wet night recently to find two decent sized frogs on my front porch. I was delicately (in flip flops) trying to find the best way to unlock my door without squishing something, being jumped on, or allowing a pet friend to join Stanley under my couch. Scott (more bold probably because he was wearing sneakers) urged the frogs off my porch with the side of his foot.

I’ve seen a snake. He was black with black shiny eyes. I was coming back to the apartment for lunch on a weekday, and I was on the phone. I saw the snake – nearly 3 feet long and as big around as a quarter – laying on the top of the bushes near my apartment. I jumped and screamed (sorry person I was on the phone with). I thought it might not have been real (like one of the neighborhood kids could have left it there as a joke), so I leaned in close to examine it. It looked at me and stuck out its tongue (also black, in case you were wondering). My dad told me that it would likely stick around for a day or two to hunt, but then it would move on. Even though I haven’t seen it since that day, I am convinced that it is lurking somewhere in the bushes waiting to look at me and stick its tongue out again. He is too large to vacuum, so I can’t use the Stanley deal with this one.

Jules and I walked down to the leasing office on Friday night to pay my rent. It had been raining all evening, but the downpour had slowed to a drizzle. We were huddled under a big golf umbrella, and the parking lot was still dotted with puddles from the earlier rain. The asphalt was also dotted with earthworms. Hundreds of them, writhing on the wet ground, yards from the soil. I don't know how they got there. Did they decide (as a group) to use the downpour as an opportunity to slither from one grassy side of the lot to the other? There they were, twisting slimily across the asphalt. Juleanne and I abandoned the huddling under the umbrella, and started squealing and jumping from one worm-free section of the lot to another. I think we managed to pay the rent with minimal loss of earthworm life.

I also have a pack of wild cats that live in my neighborhood. Initially, I met the first five felines on my move-in day. Scott (a cat lover) called, “Here kitty kitty” while carrying a box into my apartment. “No,” I scolded, “Don’t let them think that they have a friend in this apartment.”

I guess it was too late, because those little guys hang out on my stoop. I see a kitty shadow fall across my window as one (or more) slinks on the shelf outside my window. I’ve heard meowing in the night, and I’ve felt kitties creeping in figure eight patterns between and around my legs while I struggle to unlock my door while carrying bags of groceries. I don’t know if it was Scott’s welcoming, “Here kitty kitty,” or if I just have one of those faces that cats can’t resist.

The most recent wildlife to enter my domestic life is my neighbor’s dog. I will admit that he is adorable. He is a mutt with some sort of pitt bull in him. He wears a spiked collar and runs rampant in the complex. I was coming home one night, trying to get into my front door carrying some bags, and I felt a much less graceful figure eight around my legs than the normal feline version. The dog was ramming his small body and spiked collar indelicately into my shins. He was excited.

Do you know what puppies do when they get excited? They pee. Do you know where excited puppy pee ends up while the puppy is doing figure eights around my legs on my stoop? On my feet. Oh yes, I was wearing flip flops.

People have told me that I should get a pet. A little cat or a dog to keep me company, but you know what I say?

I have a lizard under my couch, frogs on my porch, cats in my window, worms in my parking lot, and pee on my feet. I don’t need a pet; I have a zoo.