Good Country People

Flannery O’Connor (1925 – 1965) described herself (noted by Blake Bailey in a 2009 Virginia Quarterly Review article) as "pigeon-toed child with a receding chin and a you-leave-me-alone-or-I'll-bite-you complex.” She wrote novels, short stories, and essays and featured grotesque characters set in stereotypical Southern situations and that challenged readers’ sense of morality and ethics. In short, her writing is a hoot.

I chose her short story Good Country People in my attempt to demonstrate a mastery of literature as I faced oral exams necessary to graduate from Hillsdale College. Years earlier, I was unknowingly introduced to her work by seeing the movie Wise Blood on a weekend adventure in New York City as a college freshman. The movie shook me.

It was a year or two later that I discovered that it was Miss O’Conner who penned the novel on which that movie was based. It further rocked me to discover that she was gentle Southern lady who mostly lived as a recluse and who raised peacocks and other avian species. She was a devout Catholic living in the Bible Belt who never married and died at the age of 39 from complications from lupus.

The characters in Good Country People will unsettle even the most urbane reader (unless he or she has absolutely no moral compass). Without ruining the fun of this story, I’ll limit my preview: a one-legged woman changes her name from “Joy” to “Hulga” and a Bible salesman belies his trade.

Now, here’s the rub: since 1999, when I started to live on the farm, I’ve met my neighbors and have slowly developed relationships with some exceptional people. Within a mile or two of home, there are career farmers, an ophthalmologist, an attorney, an auto company executive, greenhouse operators, holders of doctorates, greens keepers, a realtor, and a plumber. All of us live in our beloved rural setting and, in a literal sense, deserve the moniker: good country people.

Within this circle, I believe all of my neighbors would extend any help as needed. Tree needs to come down, call me. Truck stuck in the mud, call me. Need to use the tractor, call me. Basement filling with water, call me. Oh, I’m certain that there are closeted skeletons, but none that rattle bones more than mine.

Tonight, “neighbor plumber” Kevin stopped by because he knew I’ve been wrestling with a drywell issue. Previously, he’s come to the rescue when weekend guests were due and there was no hot water. Subsequently, I’ve welcomed him during duck season to drop a mallard or two on the ponds. His wife cans exceptional tomato sauce and they freely share summer sweet corn. As he walked in the door, he handed me a goose breast to add to the freezer for a future meal.

We rerouted some lines and came up with a reasonable stopgap as it relates to the drywell issue. I decanted some cider for his family (from this past weekend) and packaged some freshly ground horseradish for him. We shared a beer, talked about family, hunting, work, the World Series, and neighbors we share. I'm certain that we both feel as though the other has been more generous.

When the nightly news does its best to tell us that all is lost or various groups do all they can to besmirch our Country and our way of life, I’ll continue to think about my neighbors – the good country people – who care and act in ways that make life a daily joy.



Peacock image reported to be in the public domain and can be found at:  
http://fithfath.com/images/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/peacock.jpg