…you are not Scottish. By which I mean to say that I think, friends, that were I not from an off-the-boat Scottish family, I would be a redneck. Or, maybe more than a redneck. I might be a full-on hillbilly.
My family’s status as Scottish immigrants is, I believe, the only element saving us from USA Certified Grade A Prime redneckitude. How do I make this determination? Well, a few factors, one of which occurred this past week, that really make the case:
1) Growing up, we had a broken down washing machine in our back yard. It broke; my parents got a new one…and so didn’t have the extra money to pay to take it to the town dump. And so there it sat, for years, I think. In sheer high school embarrassment at one point, I even went so far as to wonder whether I could plant something nice in it and maybe hide that it was a non-functioning appliance in my back yard. I recall specifically seeding right around it, hoping that we would grow mammoth rhubarb to cover it. Broken Appliances in Yard---CHECK!
2) We also had an old indoor chair on our porch, where my dad liked to sit and smoke his pipe and watch the sun set. I used to sit out there with him, loving the smell of his pipe mixing with that fresh, zippy "tomato plant" smell from our yard, along with the remnants of whatever we had had for dinner. See? It already sounds like a Huck Finn evening, doesn't it? We just need a riverboat and some mischievous hijinks to make it complete. In any case, Indoor Furniture Kept Out of Doors--CHECK!
3) Our car, I’m a bit embarrassed to admit now but wasn’t at the time, had a “Sh&t Happens” bumper sticker. Yep. We were those people. We didn’t see any problem with that; after all, it’s not like we had a “Baby on Board” thingy. So, “Sh*t Happens Bumpersticker”—CHECK!
4) And the final reason that proves we are putative rednecks: this past week, my “blog-shy baby daddy” who likes to remain nameless, faceless and attributionless (and so most likely will never be mentioned again to preserve his secure, undisclosed status—and no, he’s not Dick Cheney) dropped the bambina off at my parents house while I was at the doctor being probed for green phlegm. He said the following: “Little H (my niece) met me at the door, midday, in only her onesie.” No sooner had my daughter been transferred to my parents than they had her pants off because their old people apartment is kept so d**n hot all day. So his view upon leaving our daughter was thus: two old people (mercifully fully clothed) and two half-naked chilluns—still wearing their shoes! Dear Lord preserve us.
And so! I give you: “Half-nekkid children in shoes with granmaw and granpaw”—CHECK! CHECK! and CHECK!
Next up: my daughter and I get matching mullets.