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It’s been quite a while since I checked in with everyone at PWA. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to. In fact, there’s nothing I’d rather do than to sit down and talk with old friends. And Lord knows I haven’t lost interest in Power Wagons. Never will. My absence has been mainly about the long process of moving across the country and having a big to-do-list.
My new house (it’s really old) sits on 2 ½ acres at a place called Stone Mountain, which borders the Uwharrie National Forest, the Uwharrie Mountains, Lake Tillery, and the Great Pee Dee River. It’s truly a beautiful place, and there’s no place I’d rather be. But the previous owner brutalized the land. He stripped the whole property of it’s grand loblolly pines;hundreds of them. And he let the old house go uncared for as well. So, I’ve got to repair the house and reforest the land. It’s nothing I can’t do…it just takes time and work.
Anyway.
I’m not complaining. Work is redemptive at this time in my life. Staying busy keeps my mind off of the fact that my beloved son has gone off to Wake Forest and I won’t be seeing so much of him anymore. And it serves as proof that I can still put my hand to the plow and accomplish a hard day’s work during a time of life when people are starting to label me as “the gray haired guy.” People are doing that. They are putting me in the old guy box.
It’s nothing new. People put us all in boxes. They label us. When I was younger I was “the firefighter.” I was also the guy with the cool old truck. In 4th grade I was the smart guy who knew what a homonym or homophone was. Which didn’t really mean I was smart, it just meant I knew the difference between their, they’re and there and I understood that one doesn’t have to look closely to see that harass is different than her ***. They just sound alike.
Anyway.
I guess I really don’t mind being the old guy. It could be worse. It’s a far shot better than being the grumpy guy, or the dumb guy, or the guy who pees on the toilet seat. When I was a kid, I learned you’ve got to be careful of being labeled. Don’t pee on the toilet seat. Don’t be a grump all the time. And learn all you can learn each day. And when people start calling you old, you need to get out there and work circles around them. You may be old, but at least you don’t have to hear about it.
The truth is, most of us Power Wagon guys really are getting old and the labels are now pretty much limited to either demented or distinguished. Distinguished isn’t fitting at a time when you keep losing your glasses and forgetting the word for the thingy that sits on top of the engine, you know, the gas-a-ma-jiggy. And you have to pee at 3 a.m. and while you pee, you remember carburetor and you’re happy with that; so happy that you pee all over the toilet seat. And in the morning someone says, “Who peed all over the toilet seat?”
“Not Me.”
Anyway.
We love it here. The people of the rural South have charm and they have it in spades. They’re good folks who are, by and large, hard working and friendly. They understand that their work is important but are glad to drop whatever they’re doing to lean against a car and talk with you. The way I see it, the world could use more people like that. People who set aside time to talk about good things; things like the relative merits of Dodge, Ford, and Chevy, the art of getting along with women, and the importance of changing your oil.
I judge they’re really not all that much different from good rural Midwesterners except that most southerners prefer eating barbecue to eating an Iowa pork chop. The fact is, I haven’t met anyone I didn’t like with the exception of the crotchety old hag at the DMV. Now THAT’S a label nobody wants to have. The crotchety old hag at the DMV.
Charles Talbert and his wife live a short ways from here. I don’t know exactly how many minutes it takes to drive from my place to his place. Maybe 15 minutes. He and his wife have been a huge blessing to us. They, like most folks here, are native to the area and have really helped us get our feet set. In all, we have been welcomed very kindly by everyone.…even with our odd dialect and charm deficit.
In Stanly County, NC, the only proper pronoun is Y’all. I’m working on it. But I will admit the first time I talked to Charles and he said, “how y’all doin’,” I looked to see if someone had snuck in behind me. They hadn’t. I was y’all. And that’s ok. I don’t mind being y’all. It’s part of the verbal folk art that makes this part of the country unique.
We are also not far from Todd Somers place and I hope to get up there soon. It’s been a while since we talked.
Fenway is doing fine. Momma’s doing fine. Colt’s doing fine. I’m doing fine. I hope y’all are too.
Now, it’s time to get back to work. Nobody really wants to be labeled as the old guy.
My new house (it’s really old) sits on 2 ½ acres at a place called Stone Mountain, which borders the Uwharrie National Forest, the Uwharrie Mountains, Lake Tillery, and the Great Pee Dee River. It’s truly a beautiful place, and there’s no place I’d rather be. But the previous owner brutalized the land. He stripped the whole property of it’s grand loblolly pines;hundreds of them. And he let the old house go uncared for as well. So, I’ve got to repair the house and reforest the land. It’s nothing I can’t do…it just takes time and work.
Anyway.
I’m not complaining. Work is redemptive at this time in my life. Staying busy keeps my mind off of the fact that my beloved son has gone off to Wake Forest and I won’t be seeing so much of him anymore. And it serves as proof that I can still put my hand to the plow and accomplish a hard day’s work during a time of life when people are starting to label me as “the gray haired guy.” People are doing that. They are putting me in the old guy box.
It’s nothing new. People put us all in boxes. They label us. When I was younger I was “the firefighter.” I was also the guy with the cool old truck. In 4th grade I was the smart guy who knew what a homonym or homophone was. Which didn’t really mean I was smart, it just meant I knew the difference between their, they’re and there and I understood that one doesn’t have to look closely to see that harass is different than her ***. They just sound alike.
Anyway.
I guess I really don’t mind being the old guy. It could be worse. It’s a far shot better than being the grumpy guy, or the dumb guy, or the guy who pees on the toilet seat. When I was a kid, I learned you’ve got to be careful of being labeled. Don’t pee on the toilet seat. Don’t be a grump all the time. And learn all you can learn each day. And when people start calling you old, you need to get out there and work circles around them. You may be old, but at least you don’t have to hear about it.
The truth is, most of us Power Wagon guys really are getting old and the labels are now pretty much limited to either demented or distinguished. Distinguished isn’t fitting at a time when you keep losing your glasses and forgetting the word for the thingy that sits on top of the engine, you know, the gas-a-ma-jiggy. And you have to pee at 3 a.m. and while you pee, you remember carburetor and you’re happy with that; so happy that you pee all over the toilet seat. And in the morning someone says, “Who peed all over the toilet seat?”
“Not Me.”
Anyway.
We love it here. The people of the rural South have charm and they have it in spades. They’re good folks who are, by and large, hard working and friendly. They understand that their work is important but are glad to drop whatever they’re doing to lean against a car and talk with you. The way I see it, the world could use more people like that. People who set aside time to talk about good things; things like the relative merits of Dodge, Ford, and Chevy, the art of getting along with women, and the importance of changing your oil.
I judge they’re really not all that much different from good rural Midwesterners except that most southerners prefer eating barbecue to eating an Iowa pork chop. The fact is, I haven’t met anyone I didn’t like with the exception of the crotchety old hag at the DMV. Now THAT’S a label nobody wants to have. The crotchety old hag at the DMV.
Charles Talbert and his wife live a short ways from here. I don’t know exactly how many minutes it takes to drive from my place to his place. Maybe 15 minutes. He and his wife have been a huge blessing to us. They, like most folks here, are native to the area and have really helped us get our feet set. In all, we have been welcomed very kindly by everyone.…even with our odd dialect and charm deficit.
In Stanly County, NC, the only proper pronoun is Y’all. I’m working on it. But I will admit the first time I talked to Charles and he said, “how y’all doin’,” I looked to see if someone had snuck in behind me. They hadn’t. I was y’all. And that’s ok. I don’t mind being y’all. It’s part of the verbal folk art that makes this part of the country unique.
We are also not far from Todd Somers place and I hope to get up there soon. It’s been a while since we talked.
Fenway is doing fine. Momma’s doing fine. Colt’s doing fine. I’m doing fine. I hope y’all are too.
Now, it’s time to get back to work. Nobody really wants to be labeled as the old guy.
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