The most country thing happened to me today. I killed a raccoon.
It wasn’t any old raccoon killing either. In city terms it would probably be called vehicular homicide; country terms: instant road kill.
I, personally, am still in a state of shock. About a week after we moved my cousin claimed he killed a whole family of raccoons. I remember feeling embarrassed for him, until he claimed he swerved on purpose to hit them. He was proud. Me, I was pretty disgusted.
Now how am I to judge? I am a raccoon murder too. Not intentionally. It was five-thirty in the morning. They were huddled in the middle of the road and I swerved right to avoid them. One just decided to run right too. Hence it was instantly road kill.
Does this mean I am officially a country girl?
Ok, I should stop acting like am cement-beating city person. I did live on a farm for six years when I was younger, and I learned my way around hog barns while in college to make some extra cash. But it seems sometimes I forget the things I love most about the country.
Like the quietness, or wearing Carhartt jackets. Come on, is there anything more country that a Carhartt jacket?
Then there is standing in the yard at night and watching the lights of airplanes weave in between the stars. The enormity of the sky takes your breath away and makes you feel like you’re floating a sea of stars.
For the record though, I do not, enjoy being a raccoon murder. But I am enjoying being a country girl again.
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