Deaf Muskrats

Or, otherwise titled, Getting in Touch With My Inner White Trash.

And before anyone decides I'm a jerk, let me point out that I lived in a trailer, a rusty, nasty, trailer with mice inhabiting my oven while I cut my husband's hair (with his shirt off) in my front "yard" right up until we bought our first house. I know from which I speak. No, people aren't "trash" but you know what I mean when I say it, don't you?

I could also say getting in touch with my inner country girl, I guess.

So.

Hubs pointed out, as we drove "home" July 3rd that summer, especially the summer days surrounding Independence day, brings out the weirdos. People who live in a dump of a home, but stand out front shooting off the biggest fireworks money can buy. Hello? You just spent a month's rent on that one, mister. With your shirt off, and your beer belly hanging out. Oh, and is that your wife mowing the lawn in, wait, is that a bikkini or a bra and panties?

And then we proceeded to the fireworks stand.

Ever thrown Black Cats down a muskrat tunnel? It is this massive underground series of tunnels that lead to the water, some are underwater, some are dry-ish. They make a sound like FWOOMP! when you drop lit Black Cats into them. If you drop them into the swampy ones, it makes a geyser. A mud geyser that might splat all over you.

But I deny knowing that information.

You know those little tanks you can shoot off that will roll and shoot flames out? You can set several off at once and have a demo derby of sorts. Of course, they might light each other on fire.

But I deny knowing that information also.

No matter how plush and nice and green the grass looks, it still may harbor chiggers.

Just typing the word chiggers makes me feel a little less citified.

I deny knowing how bad chiggers in the bra and panty line might or might not itch for days on end. Or knowing that they seem to itch worst at 3AM.

Because I'm a city girl. And we don't talk about chiggers.

Oh, heavens. What am I saying? I had the distinct privilege of sitting out in a hot open field while my children rode combine (and tractor and wheat truck) during the last day of wheat harvest.

I haven't felt that peaceful since I was in high school and could go off into fields by myself and watch the stars. I just stood there with the wind blowing through my hair. And if I closed my eyes all I could hear (as long as the combine was on the other side of the field) was crickets and prairie grass blowing. I told Hubs that next time I'm all wrought up and anxious he just needs to haul me out to a field and dump me for an hour.

I could BREATHE, people! I'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe!

And later that night we put the kids to bed (home with the grandparents) and went out into the middle of a field and watched people set off fireworks all around us. And looked at the massive quantities of stars in between.

It was way better than those elaborate fireworks shows we get into traffic jams to see around here.

Call me white trash. I'm a country girl at heart.