I Might Be a Redneck

     I used to think I was a classy lady surrounded by rednecks.  When my oldest son dragged home a roadkilled deer and left it behind his truck (looking for all the world like it had committed suicide by running flat out into the back of it), just in case the meat was still good, I figured he was a redneck.  When he tried to make me stop on Highway 93 to retrieve roadkilled birds so he could use the hackle to tie flies, I figured he was a redneck.  When I was driving around with a dead raccoon in my trunk so he could get money for "recycling" him, I knew he was a redneck.  (Remember Larry, Darrell and Darrell?)  When Will was in his taxidermy phase and I was afraid to look in the mystery bags in my freezer, I was a victim of a redneck.  Yes, I aided and abbetted a redneck, but I was not a redneck.
     When my daughter used her Isuzu to tow two (fun phrase) Californians out of the ditch on her way to Missoula, I was afraid she was a redneck.  When she was more concerned about where to put her tools in her college apartment than her clothes or furniture, I felt a prickle of redneck.  When her offer to start someone's "rig" was completely misinterpreted in South Dakota, her redneck secret was out.  When her Christmas list was comprised entirely of metal objects, I gave up hope.  Yes, I had raised another redneck, but I was not a redneck.
     When passersby thought we had a house full of company because of all the vehicles parked in the  driveway, but they were all just Tracy's, we looked like rednecks. When, in spite of that, he had nothing capable of getting him four miles to work, it was obvious, he was a redneck.  When he nearly got hypothermia pulling his drowning mud bogger out of the Stillwater river, he was dangerously redneck. When he gave his sister a tattoo for Christmas, and she accepted, they were classic rednecks. Yes, I had given birth to three rednecks, but I was not a redneck.
    And what can I say about my husband?  When Reed is "dressed up" he is wearing black jeans.  Our small storage room is full of reloading supplies and the big one is full of guns.  The 1970's era pop-up camper sitting on sawhorses in our driveway became the neighborhood's ugliest lawn ornament last summer. (This summer he has his pickup topper sitting on them.)  He uses masking tape for bandages.  If you have spent much time with him, you know he is a redneck.  Yes I married a redneck, but I was not a redneck.
    But my hopes that somehow I had escaped unscathed have faded.  When every man I saw in Portland looked gay to me, I began to suspect I was redneck  When I realized the smell I was finding comfortably familiar in the church parking lot was diesel exhaust, I also caught of whiff of doom.  And, just recently, when I was cleaning and I realized I was being protective of my "good rag", it hit me again.  By osmosis  or environmental influences, I have become a redneck. 
     Perhaps it was the Fellowship of the Ring parties when my children would pick up a bow, axe and club to end (and begin) the suffering of the neighborhood varmints that broke down my resistance.  Since blowing up the gingerbread house with firecrackers on New Year's Day was entirely my idea, I can only assume I have been suffering from redneckitis for a long time.  Probably it happened gradually through many years of loving rednecks because "where your treasure is, there will your heart be also".  My heart resides in the no nonsense neighborhood of rednecks; I'm right where I belong.