by Joshua Carden
November 5, 2000
My mom bought a house. I say that casually now, but it hasn’t really sunk in for me yet. My mom, who has long wanted to live in something a little more tornado-proof than our old double-wide trailer, sold our farm and moved into a house in town. Now, like most transactions of any significance, it sounds a whole lot more simple than it actually was. There was a lot of work needed before my mom could actually move in. There was the carpet, and the painting, and the remodeling. For example, my mom decided she didn’t need the giant, mirrored bathtub in the middle of the master bedroom. “Never buy a house from someone named Archimedes” is my new house-buying motto (A little highbrow humor for you ancient history buffs; and, yes, I made it up. Eureka!). Then after the remodeling, there was the actual process of moving, coupled with the fact that my grandmother is moving in with them and bringing her household of belongings along with her. Rumor has it that their two combined collections of tupperware could hold the entire nation’s leftovers if the refrigerator was larger. I wasn’t actually present for the move (Law student and all that. My mom couldn’t wait until Christmas break to move, but I think she IS saving me a few boxes to unpack), but I hear the caravan of trucks was quite impressive. It’s amazing how much stuff one family can accumulate. Sometimes I think that moving our book collection alone is comparable to relocating the Library of Congress.
I got to see the new house for the first time since the remodeling and the move this past weekend (11/4). It was nice. Bob Vila would approve. But I have to admit it was a little strange. My family lives in the city now? This does not compute. I have been calling myself a country boy for so long now that I can’t imagine reverting. True, there are many advantages. Jennifer and Jonathan can ride bikes without being swallowed by potholes. My mom can get to the grocery store in less than two minutes. The pizza man will actually come to our front door! We used to have to meet him halfway. And for my mom’s benefit, 3 acres is a lot less to mow than 285. But no more shooting in the backyard. The new neighbors wouldn’t approve, and it would be illegal in the city anyway. No more late night walks under a sky filled with so many stars that even Carl Sagan couldn’t count them all. No more chain-sawing, brush-hogging, field-mowing, cow-chasing . . .not that I’ll miss those particular things all that much.
Actually, I’m pretty much operating on the idea that country is a state of mind. I’ve ridden in a real roundup, so I’ve earned my right to wear cowboy boots for the rest of my life. I get made fun of a lot out in Virginia when I wear them to courtroom arguments, but I just cling to the fact that the Texas attorney general wore the same kind of boots in the Supreme Court. So there! I still listen to the occasional country song to remind me of where I come from – and that no matter how bad you sing, someone might still play your songs on the radio! And Weatherford, Texas, ain’t exactly a huge metropolis. This is still the town where my brother Jason rode a horse through the drive-in at Taco Casa. This is still the town where a would-be bank robber broke into a clothing store next door by mistake. And this is still the town where you can’t go to Wal-Mart without bumping into a least a dozen people that you know. So I guess I can still call myself a country boy. You know that old saying: You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy unless you use brain-washing techniques, play Gary Puckett records, and replace his collection of boots and blue jeans with DKNY. I guess I’m safe. So anyway, next time you’re in Weatherford, Texas, look us up. I may not be there, but I’m sure my mom could use some help unpacking. Just go easy with the china, OK?
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