Many times over the summer, Matt and I would venture down to the Cardinal Cafe in Adairville, Kentucky for a cup of their .25 cent coffee and air conditioning. Unfortunately, due to the ‘economic downturn’ of our country, the price of the Cardinal Cafe’s coffee skyrocketed to .50 cents, but we kept going anyway. I’d want to go so I could get some writing done, but I was never able to because the owner, who is also the cook, would constantly engage us in conversation.

Monday was our last foray to the Cardinal Cafe and when Mike, the owner, found out, he insisted that we all give him our autographs. He lined out three kitchen tickets on the counter – one each for Matt and Hardy and I. We each obliged, writing a little ‘thank-you’ blurb and signing our names. Mike beamed as he thumb-tacked each one to the cafe wall underneath the daily menu board.

Then Matt and I headed to the Adairville library, a place where the hours actually shorten when school begins. There’s only one librarian, Barbara. When we walked in, I said, “Hey Barbara, how’s your son doing? I heard he was in a really bad car accident. I hope he gets better soon.” She thanked me and after our chat I said good-bye and informed her that our summer in Adairville was over and we were leaving the next day. She tilted her head and then said, “Hey, are you all the ones that Dick Dickerson wrote about in the county paper?”

Dick is our neighbor down the road. He’s the local politician, writer, historian and all around civic guy. We ran into him constantly all summer and almost every time, he’d mention how he believed that someday we’d all be famous. He’s a really nice guy. We liked having him around to chat with.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “What did his article say?”

“Well, the headline was ‘Movie Stars on State Line Road.’”

“Ha!” I laughed. “Yes, that’s us!”

Welcome to country life!

We are lucky that we live next to Mr. Joe. He’s like the honorary mayor of Adairville. He’s 80 years old and has lived here his whole life. Everybody knows him. The first thing anyone asks when they meet us is “Ya’ll ain’t from around here, are ya?” The second thing people ask is “Where do ya’ll live?” Then we tell them that we live in the house just past Mr. Joe’s.

It’s like Mr. Joe is our ticket to being an insider. Any air of suspicion that we are regarded with melts away the second that they hear we live near Mr. Joe. They just nod their heads and say, “Oh yeah, I know where that is!” Suddenly, it’s like the locals know we’re all right. We’ve passed the first test.

So, I’ll admit it.

I glamourized the country life just a little bit in my head. I am having a great time out here, I love it. I love walking through the soybean fields, seeing the new plants poke up from the wheat that was harvested last month. I love the solitude. The old house I’m staying is like a grandiose time warp, the calendar in the kitchen is dated August, 1963. I can be as loud as I want. I love the fact that I am reposing in a part of the country that’s so unique and that few people ever get to know about. But . . . there are a few shortcomings to country life that I hadn’t thought of til I got out here.

Fuel Dependency is a big issue. You pretty much have to have a car to leave the property. I thought I’d be able to walk to town and putter around. Town is only a few miles away, but the main problem I have with using my ambulatory abilities is that every neighbor has at least one mean farm dog. I get to the end of the lane and they are already barking and tearing across the nearby property, heading my way. I carry a tobacco stick for protection, but I don’t want to take on three strange dogs by myself.

And oddly enough, safety is a bit of a concern. Not a worry, so much, but a concern. I was walking through one of the fields the other day, when I noticed a car coming down the road. Whoever was in the car saw me and then slowed waaay down. I didn’t like that. Also, I’m not the kind of person who is intimidated by going anywhere by myself, but I can honestly say that around here, I feel safer when not alone. There are alot of drunk, obnoxious men with an air of lawlessness in their eyes who don’t know how to act when they see a hippie girl in flowery dress and floppy hat who is obviously not from around here. (Whoa, just wait til I roller skate the square in Adairville.)

A friend asked me today what happens when the newness of living in Tenn-Tucky wears off and we all stop having a good time. And honestly, that’s part of the reason why we’re all leaving when it gets cold. It’ll be time to move on. And I’ve been meeting alot of locals around here who very much feel stuck. They regard us as novelties – as much as we regard them in the same way. So, this is a great adventure for me, but this place is a bit like summer camp as I know it will have an end. And that makes any short-comings bearable.

I’m eating tons of bacon and drinking PBR daily, so when you get right down to it all of my complaints about country life have to do with my magical expanding ass coupled with a lack of viable exercise. I might have to (gasp!) start doing yoga or some such shit. Sigh. I suppose them’s the brakes. Bacon is worth it. So is beer.