You Can Call Me Darlin’
I’ve finally accepted the duality of my life. I wasn’t sure duality was actually a word, so I looked it up. And in doing so realized that it’s not only a word, but the word that so completely defines me at this moment. “The state or quality of being two, or in two parts.” Yep, that about sums things up. I sometimes wonder if moving to the land will resolve the duality of this life.
Sunday afternoon I was wandering in the front acreage when I heard a car horn honk repeatedly and then the sound of someone whistling loudly to get our attention. There’s only one person in our lives who demonstrates this level of persistence in order to have a neighborly chat. If you’re not readily accessible, oh boy, he’ll find you.
Dwayne’s Sunday visits come like clockwork since we’ve gotten the trailer. He knows where to find us and makes a point of stopping by once a week to provide the neighborhood update. It’s the old fashioned version of tabloid news. Dwayne is, above all else, a storyteller. He starts each tale with one hand on his beer and the other shoved into his pocket (or maybe holding the cell phone that’s always ringing), but once he gets going, both arms are flailing, he’s crouched down at least once, changed his voice, acted out a scene, and laughed so hard he’s slapped both of his own thighs. By the time we hear about the snakes he’s seen, catfish he’s caught, or steaks he’s eaten during the week, they’ve grown to twice their original size. I’m not saying he exaggerates as much as embellishes the truth. But isn’t that the best way to hear a story? Oh, and it’s true that the bulk of our conversations revolve around the three aforementioned items: wildlife seen, caught, or eaten.
This Sunday Dwayne deviated slightly from the normal topics of conversation to share a story about his good friend Charlie who clearly was a lucky man, and Dwayne stopped at this moment in his storytelling to touch my shoulder and say “Excuse what I’m about to say, but you’re in the country now darlin’ ” and went on to explain that Charlie’s gift was that “he always fell in shit and came out smellin’ like a rose.” Shoot, as long as you call me darlin’ and remind me that I’m in the country, you can say just about whatever you’d like, Dee-you-wayne.
Stories like that just aren’t told in the places where I spend the weekdays. On Monday mornings I pack away the weekend and drag around the feeling of that place all week long, like this whole entire other that’s carried around for five days until it’s time to unpack memories of the previous weekend and live it again. I’m lighter out there, is what I’m trying to say. It’s the other side of this life, for two days; talking different and walking different and caring about things that just don’t cross the mind in the days spent behind a desk or on a computer. Duality, yes sir. I accept that there’s two of me split between days of the week. And that load isn’t too heavy to carry, but I sure won’t miss when it’s gone.
