A citified man perplexed in the country
After leading a citified life, I’ve been spending more time than usual in the countryside where I still feel like Eddie Albert in Green Acres, a man out of his depth, a fellow taking in the hay while wearing spats and a threepiece suit.
I have, you see, so much to learn. Where to begin?
How about the fact that there is hardly a day when I am not faced with some unfamiliar task, some duty that is too much for a skill-set honed in urban places where some wizardry with a tax return is valued more than being an ace with a socket wrench, able to rebuild a boat engine or any of the other things that self-sufficient people grow up knowing how to do.
So I have started to try to do the most rudimentary things myself anyway because that is the way of the country.
Though this has resulted in some examples of mighty poor workmanship around the hacienda, I push on, if anything more obtusely determined, which is indicative of the uncharacteristically can-do attitude I have adopted since coming to the country.
The first step is surely to get some tools and machinery, particularly things that run on wheels.
In town, a leaf-blower and weed-whacker capable of taming a postage-stamp lawn may be all the person needs to get through the day.
CUT, BUCK AND DIG
To do epic battle with nature, as is done in the country, a person needs all manner of apparatus to cut, buck and dig, lift, haul and pull.
So far, I have acquired an electric screwdriver and a wheelbarrow, because any major transformation must begin with small steps.
But it means I am dependent upon the benevolence of others, like our neighbour, who has helped me out more times than I can count and owns so many purpose-built vehicles that if he turned the corner behind the wheel of a hovercraft, I would not be surprised one bit.
I have made some progress: learning how to dry wood, discovering the magic qualities of seaweed spread on a vegetable garden.
Almost all of it is due to the kind-heartedness of folks I did not know a couple of years ago, who have been as generous with their wisdom, as they have with eggs, lobsters, strawberries and dog bones.
Even then, my learning curve remains steep. Take, for example, the you-wouldthink-straightforward matter of interacting with others.
Now my belief, based on little more than anecdote and a Homer's conviction that where I live is the best place to live, is that even among the amiable folk of Canada, Nova Scotians stand out for their friendliness. In fact, this was confirmed this week when I asked around in the Moving to Nova Scotia From Ontario Facebook group and heard repeated examples of the warmth with which newcomers have been greeted when moving here, including one respondent’s deeply held wish that our distinctive brand of neighbourliness “NEVER changes.”
THE RURAL WAVE
We know this whenever we walk on a city sidewalk or a country lane where people on foot generally follow what a friend who moved here from another continent calls the 10 and five rule: when 10 feet away eye contact is made; at five feet a smile materializes.
When face to face some sort of verbal greeting—anything from a casual “how’s she goin’” to a regal “captain” as a person can be addressed on the South Shore—takes place, tying up the loose ends on the mutually beneficial back and forth.
What throws me is when some sort of automobile is involved in the interpersonal exchange, which can happen more often in the country.
In the city when someone blows their horn in my direction because we went to junior high together or because I’m lollygagging too long in crosswalk, I just raise a fist like John Carlos at the ’68 Olympics, sometimes without even looking at the hornblower.
Out in the country, it is different, or at least it is to me.
And so, fearful of being seen as rude and un-nova Scotian, I wave to strangers on bicycles, behind the wheels of 18-wheelers, and just out on the road walking their dogs.
If someone is out in the early morning getting in their 10,000 steps, I will lock eyes, and perhaps lift a hand partway off the steering wheel in greeting.
If a man or woman is standing by their mailbox, sorting through the day’s letters and happens to look towards the road and see a Volkswagen Golf passing by, they may receive a broad grin, and raised chin, to commemorate our small, shared moment.
Some of them wave back, maybe smile, at least a flicker of one. Other folks, brows furrowed, just pretend they haven’t seen me.
Who can blame them? I make a strange sight, I’m reasonably sure of that.