November 05, 2009
City Mouse, Country Mouse
I am at a point on the timeline of my life in which I have experienced nearly equal parts of being a city dweller and a resident of less populated areas. I was born in Chicago to parents native of it, and by way of “white flight” and ostensibly better schools, raised just a few miles up the shore.
I know from history that in previous generations it was simpler to see the difference between many of Chicago's classic ethnic neighborhoods. Gentrification has made those boundaries much less obtrusive today. Still, in most of the major metropolitan areas of America, short distances of a mile or two can represent worlds of difference. An observant visitor or any realtor worth their salt can still see this, albeit increasingly along socio-economic lines as the cultural ones are being homogenized.
While my upbringing was not technically urban, my specific neighborhood and its proximity to the city provided an experience much more so than the typical concept of suburban life (e.g. Leave It To Beaver, The Brady Bunch, etc.). Urban-like diversity was apparent in my high school's student body as well as in real estate, with homes separated by a short physical distance often having disparity of tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars in value.
We didn't have near as much in the way of direct supervision growing up, much less formal play dates or groups. The bicycle was the ultimate instrument of independence, shrinking my microcosm to any limit that could accommodate being back before the streetlights came on. After outgrowing that rule the bike continued to provide essential transportation since I was not one of the fortunate teens who was either provided or could afford an automobile. I miss those days and have concern that my son may not be afforded the local geography and relatively safe traffic needed for youthful neighborhood bike adventures.
I am often amused by the thought of how distances seemed so much greater in my days as a city mouse. When my eldest brother left the nest I was about eight or nine years old, and the anticipation of the 20-mile drive to go visit him in his new digs was quite titillating - one might have thought I was going on my first plane trip. To not spend the night at his place required a round trip that was practically a pioneer wagon voyage by my excitable pre-adolescent perceptions.
In contrast, the sparser population centers of my past two decades of residency have alternated between the in-town life of a couple of southern micropoli and more rural digs not far from such. By and large I have enjoyed the change, at least enough to give my old northern stomping grounds the status of “nice place to visit - wouldn't want to live there.” But now in the wide open spaces of Georgia I have friends that live 20 or more miles away. Of course the lightly traveled two-lane highways here probably require a third less travel time from the “surface street” routes of the cities and suburbs (a standing joke in Chicagoland is that it takes 45 minutes to get anywhere – in good traffic).
As to the aforementioned timeline, like anyone I hope that it includes many more decades of healthy and happy existence. And while the cultural draws of a city will always be worth the occasional long drive, I lean toward increasing my distance from the magnetic convenience of the modern business district. Years ago I moved from the Bay Area of California to the bucolic (if culturally stunted) environs of northwestern Georgia. After a few years of settling in I began a subscription to Organic Gardening magazine, which guided me in maintaining a small plot of veggies and flowers for two years running before letting expense and laziness become excuses not to.
I want to get back to things like that in the worst way. I confess to the possibility that this is just a pipe dream (my consolation being that currently I am minutes from a symphony and great Thai food). My desire to eschew city life is coupled with a perception that American society has changed too much from the quasi-urban neighborhood of my youth. Sidewalks are rare, old growth trees even more so, and these are superficial things to the real concern that modern parents have of leaving their child unwatched.
I suppose there is irony in having the most desirable areas of rural America gentrified into hobby farms and estates of various rustic-looking excess. I confess that I dream of having a few hundred topographically diverse acres on which to develop a mountain bike park. It would be naturally sustainable of course – no need to remove thousands of trees and install expensive turf that requires bajillions of gallons of water and tons of chemical fertilizers that inundate the aquifer. I guess I could settle for being a thousand feet from my nearest neighbors (none of whom require any sort of gas-powered lawn maintenance equipment), an effective composting system and enough summer sunlight for a salsa garden.
Labels: Chicago, irony, me, the past, The South, US Geography for $1200 Alex
October 03, 2007
Meanwhile, up the road a piece...
.
I might hafta mosey over and see what this fuss is all about:
Killen, huh? Perhaps the vice-president is from Lynchburg (rrrummpish!). And this is the first I've heard of northern leftists that are pushing for secession. I always figured those pinko pansies would opt for the "leave it" part of the old two-part "America:" slogan.
But seriously, that this is happening right down the road is titillating. I've had passing "what ifs?" on this subject through the years, but I wasn't aware of any concerted effort beyond some weak bumper sticker aphorisms. But reading this I must say I can see how this scenario is becoming less and less of an ideological pipe dream and more and more a distinct possibility, given the current polarized state of affairs here. Libertarians have been working on a similar separatist tack on a minimized electoral basis (I didn't dig in to see how well it was going but my guess would be "not particularly").
Could an ideologically dividedUnited States of America work? It seems to me that the shaky ground right off the bat would be in the implementation of national defense. Certainly there would have to be some sort of non-aggression pact in place to keep the peace between states, but is that something that could stand the test of time and it's changing political winds? What about trade? Or labor? Immigration?
So I'm seriously considering a trip downtown this week, assuming the secessionists might have some answers or at least food for thought. My ideological appetite would of course be more aroused by the tofu of the pointy-headed liberals than by the greasy barbecue of the good old boys, but I'm open-minded. I've never considered states rights to be a bad thing - the founders set up the constitution that way for a reason, and one of those was surely so that differing regions could adjust their structure of government to best suit the purposes of their peoples. The concept has indeed gotten a bad rap for its association with southern racist/secession thinking (if you can call it that). As the University of North Carolina history professor says in the article, it's a surprise to see the liberals conferring with the League of the South, "an organization that's associated with a cause that many of us associate with the preservation of slavery."
My gut feeling is that these two groups are likely just too fringe-y to accomplish anything, but that they have come so far as to gather and talk is enough to gain my interest.
UPDATE: Unfortunately I wasn't able to make it to the conference, but here is the article from the Chattanooga Times-Free Press.
.
I might hafta mosey over and see what this fuss is all about:
Secessionists meeting in Tennessee
By Bill Poovey, Associated Press
CHATTANOOGA, Tenn. - In an unlikely marriage of desire to secede from the United States, two advocacy groups from opposite political traditions — New England and the South — are sitting down to talk.
Tired of foreign wars and what they consider right-wing courts, the Middlebury Institute wants liberal states like Vermont to be able to secede peacefully.
That sounds just fine to the League of the South, a conservative group that refuses to give up on Southern independence.
"We believe that an independent South, or Hawaii, Alaska, or Vermont would be better able to serve the interest of everybody, regardless of race or ethnicity," said Michael Hill of Killen, Ala., president of the League of the South...(read more)
Killen, huh? Perhaps the vice-president is from Lynchburg (rrrummpish!). And this is the first I've heard of northern leftists that are pushing for secession. I always figured those pinko pansies would opt for the "leave it" part of the old two-part "America:" slogan.
But seriously, that this is happening right down the road is titillating. I've had passing "what ifs?" on this subject through the years, but I wasn't aware of any concerted effort beyond some weak bumper sticker aphorisms. But reading this I must say I can see how this scenario is becoming less and less of an ideological pipe dream and more and more a distinct possibility, given the current polarized state of affairs here. Libertarians have been working on a similar separatist tack on a minimized electoral basis (I didn't dig in to see how well it was going but my guess would be "not particularly").
Could an ideologically divided
So I'm seriously considering a trip downtown this week, assuming the secessionists might have some answers or at least food for thought. My ideological appetite would of course be more aroused by the tofu of the pointy-headed liberals than by the greasy barbecue of the good old boys, but I'm open-minded. I've never considered states rights to be a bad thing - the founders set up the constitution that way for a reason, and one of those was surely so that differing regions could adjust their structure of government to best suit the purposes of their peoples. The concept has indeed gotten a bad rap for its association with southern racist/secession thinking (if you can call it that). As the University of North Carolina history professor says in the article, it's a surprise to see the liberals conferring with the League of the South, "an organization that's associated with a cause that many of us associate with the preservation of slavery."
My gut feeling is that these two groups are likely just too fringe-y to accomplish anything, but that they have come so far as to gather and talk is enough to gain my interest.
UPDATE: Unfortunately I wasn't able to make it to the conference, but here is the article from the Chattanooga Times-Free Press.
.
Labels: gummint, politix, riiiiights, The South
August 25, 2007
Fast as an acorn’ll roll off a barn roof
.
We cruised along the windy two-lane road in the new-to-us sedan with the “touring” suspension and supercharged V-6. The car rolled the hills and took the turns like buttah. The conjunction of that with the bucolic scenery of backroads Tennessee and the pleasant conversation with Sweet Baboo, Mominlaw and Buddha Boy made it easy to lose track of the speedometer. You surely know by now where I am heading. Yes, a tiny little unincorporated burg, the proverbial “wide spot in the road,” sits just a few miles from our destination. “School zone, honey,” said the caring teacher of potential tragic roadkill.
“It’s Saturday, love,” I replied a second after tapping the brake in semiautomatic response to the yellow-trimmed sign, sans lights flashing. By the time she redefined the information as “Birchwood, 30 mph” (48 kph for our international guests), I was rounding a curve, the end of which revealed two county sheriff patrol cruisers parked in front of a boarded up something or other in that opposite vis-à-vis position convenient for conversation and the sharing of donuts and/or stashes of evidence for planting. The adrenaline surged my pulse enough to bug the eyes slightly while my throat did its little tourniquet act. They’re just hanging out, I unconvincingly told myself just a few seconds before the one that had been facing me flung a sprightly U-turn and engaged his blue light specials (didn’t I blog about that just a short time ago? Wow, I must be psychic, friends).
As I recall in most every instance of being pursued by the police, and I assure you that the majority of those times were for minor traffic offenses, there is this weird mental ritual I put myself through. It’s a kind of self-delusional surprise at realizing that the public safety employee is concerned with little old me, a sort of “Humdeedum deedum... What in the Sam Hill fiery brimstone tarnation of Islam?! Well bless St. Patsy (the patron of southern euphemisms)!! I better pull aside to facilitate this dedicated gentleman in getting to the emergency he surely must be responding to.” Reality sets in by way of that rather oxymoronic concept known as Fat Chance. I thought that perhaps by pulling into a church parking lot I could appeal to his sense of old-timey religion. Fat's evil twin Slim Chance, being more ironic than moronic, shot that one down right quick.
“Howah we dooin’ this mawnin’?” said the deptee as I held out my driving and insurance credentials.
“Not really so well. You?” I folksily replied with a sheepish grin. His look quickly reminded me that his type don’t take kinely to having any Yankee upstart pissin’ in their corn flakes on a fine summer Saturday morning. He had me dead to rights, 61 in a 30 (98/48 metric) – ouch. That’ll likely be a reckless driving violation and therefore a much heftier fine. If I’m lucky the Tennessee law enforcement computers won’t converse with Georgia’s and thus my insurance company’s to screw my premiums up for the next three years. The occifer took my documents and said he’d be back in two minutes. About 43 shakes of lamb’s tail later he returned with his clipboard and my citation mostly filled out. He leaned over and asked me few augmentary questions that didn’t seem to have shit to do with shit, then he raised up and started looking about from left to right with a “who farted?” look on his face.
“Ahm getting’ a STRONG whiff of...” in his pause I quickly thought, oil burning? “...Alkeehawl. Has anyone been drinkin’ recently?” The three adult occupants chimed in cheerfully incredulous unison in the negative. My mischievous brain devised a playful scenario in my head that was thankfully not forwarded to my mouth.
“Well sir, I’m the designated driver for our celebration last night (current time - 11:00 a.m. EDT). Yasee, mom here’s getting shipped out to Iraq on Monday, and we just wanted to take her and the grandkid out for a piss-up to remember before she goes. Now the little tyke got a bit crazy and so now he’s back there sleepin’ off a bastard behind the eyes, not to mention he’s teething, which I gotta be honest with ya was giving him NO trouble last night if ya’ know what I mean (insert knowing wink). Now if it’s all the same to you I’ll take that ticket off your hands. We’re a little pressed for time as momma and the boy still gotta go get their matching tattoos before she heads over to the armory.”
Now Sweet B is a smart little cookie, and she quickly surmised that since none of us had in fact been imbibing, the source of the smell was undoubtedly mom’s tin of Altoids, thoughtfully brought along to prevent her breakfastless stomach from giving the rest of us the supercalifragilipstickextrahalitosis weepies. Enter playful scenario #2, which twisted the curiously strong mint theory while zeroing in on both MIL's faithful hydration habit of carrying a water bottle with fresh lemons and B’s incorrigible germaphobia.
Sung to the tune of my best Foghorn Leghorn: “Well sir, I’m the designated drivah for our crew this mornin’ because momma here jes cain’t leave the house without her Absolut Citrontinis, and my luvly galpal in the back has a mild addiction to Germ-X, and I’m talkin’ the girl oughta just git a straw, if ya’ know whutta mean (insert knowing wink). Now I ain’t sure what the boy’s deal is. Hell I ain’t even sure he’s mine, but I will say that in the times I’ve had to watch him while his momma’s passed out, he’s sneaked off for a moment only to come back with a bad case of the bong breath. That’s um, from what I’ve been told the bong breath smells like, you see what I’m sayin’? So you’re prolly jes smellin’ them there furiously strong Altoids he’s all the time poppin’. But hey, that’s neither here nor there cuz he can’t drive anyway, right? Heheh. Say, can I go ahead and take that ticket off your hands? We’re a little pressed for time as junior, and that’s just a nickname since he’s really named after a negro jazz musician, junior’s got a Swim Babies session at noon, although I don’t see him doin’ much more’n staring at the sparkly water and drooling. Boy’s got what I call a cattywampus of the grey mattah, see? I mean the lad couldn't pour piss out a boot if’n the instructions was written on the heel, ya hear me?”
I signed it, he ripped it, handed it to me and said, “Don’t lose that now. Y’all have a wunnerful day, heaya?”
Playful scenario #3, The Courtroom. “Well Yeronner, I was the designated driver that fine summer morning...”
Aw, nevah you mind.
We cruised along the windy two-lane road in the new-to-us sedan with the “touring” suspension and supercharged V-6. The car rolled the hills and took the turns like buttah. The conjunction of that with the bucolic scenery of backroads Tennessee and the pleasant conversation with Sweet Baboo, Mominlaw and Buddha Boy made it easy to lose track of the speedometer. You surely know by now where I am heading. Yes, a tiny little unincorporated burg, the proverbial “wide spot in the road,” sits just a few miles from our destination. “School zone, honey,” said the caring teacher of potential tragic roadkill.
“It’s Saturday, love,” I replied a second after tapping the brake in semiautomatic response to the yellow-trimmed sign, sans lights flashing. By the time she redefined the information as “Birchwood, 30 mph” (48 kph for our international guests), I was rounding a curve, the end of which revealed two county sheriff patrol cruisers parked in front of a boarded up something or other in that opposite vis-à-vis position convenient for conversation and the sharing of donuts and/or stashes of evidence for planting. The adrenaline surged my pulse enough to bug the eyes slightly while my throat did its little tourniquet act. They’re just hanging out, I unconvincingly told myself just a few seconds before the one that had been facing me flung a sprightly U-turn and engaged his blue light specials (didn’t I blog about that just a short time ago? Wow, I must be psychic, friends).
As I recall in most every instance of being pursued by the police, and I assure you that the majority of those times were for minor traffic offenses, there is this weird mental ritual I put myself through. It’s a kind of self-delusional surprise at realizing that the public safety employee is concerned with little old me, a sort of “Humdeedum deedum... What in the Sam Hill fiery brimstone tarnation of Islam?! Well bless St. Patsy (the patron of southern euphemisms)!! I better pull aside to facilitate this dedicated gentleman in getting to the emergency he surely must be responding to.” Reality sets in by way of that rather oxymoronic concept known as Fat Chance. I thought that perhaps by pulling into a church parking lot I could appeal to his sense of old-timey religion. Fat's evil twin Slim Chance, being more ironic than moronic, shot that one down right quick.
“Howah we dooin’ this mawnin’?” said the deptee as I held out my driving and insurance credentials.
“Not really so well. You?” I folksily replied with a sheepish grin. His look quickly reminded me that his type don’t take kinely to having any Yankee upstart pissin’ in their corn flakes on a fine summer Saturday morning. He had me dead to rights, 61 in a 30 (98/48 metric) – ouch. That’ll likely be a reckless driving violation and therefore a much heftier fine. If I’m lucky the Tennessee law enforcement computers won’t converse with Georgia’s and thus my insurance company’s to screw my premiums up for the next three years. The occifer took my documents and said he’d be back in two minutes. About 43 shakes of lamb’s tail later he returned with his clipboard and my citation mostly filled out. He leaned over and asked me few augmentary questions that didn’t seem to have shit to do with shit, then he raised up and started looking about from left to right with a “who farted?” look on his face.
“Ahm getting’ a STRONG whiff of...” in his pause I quickly thought, oil burning? “...Alkeehawl. Has anyone been drinkin’ recently?” The three adult occupants chimed in cheerfully incredulous unison in the negative. My mischievous brain devised a playful scenario in my head that was thankfully not forwarded to my mouth.
“Well sir, I’m the designated driver for our celebration last night (current time - 11:00 a.m. EDT). Yasee, mom here’s getting shipped out to Iraq on Monday, and we just wanted to take her and the grandkid out for a piss-up to remember before she goes. Now the little tyke got a bit crazy and so now he’s back there sleepin’ off a bastard behind the eyes, not to mention he’s teething, which I gotta be honest with ya was giving him NO trouble last night if ya’ know what I mean (insert knowing wink). Now if it’s all the same to you I’ll take that ticket off your hands. We’re a little pressed for time as momma and the boy still gotta go get their matching tattoos before she heads over to the armory.”
Now Sweet B is a smart little cookie, and she quickly surmised that since none of us had in fact been imbibing, the source of the smell was undoubtedly mom’s tin of Altoids, thoughtfully brought along to prevent her breakfastless stomach from giving the rest of us the supercalifragilipstickextrahalitosis weepies. Enter playful scenario #2, which twisted the curiously strong mint theory while zeroing in on both MIL's faithful hydration habit of carrying a water bottle with fresh lemons and B’s incorrigible germaphobia.
Sung to the tune of my best Foghorn Leghorn: “Well sir, I’m the designated drivah for our crew this mornin’ because momma here jes cain’t leave the house without her Absolut Citrontinis, and my luvly galpal in the back has a mild addiction to Germ-X, and I’m talkin’ the girl oughta just git a straw, if ya’ know whutta mean (insert knowing wink). Now I ain’t sure what the boy’s deal is. Hell I ain’t even sure he’s mine, but I will say that in the times I’ve had to watch him while his momma’s passed out, he’s sneaked off for a moment only to come back with a bad case of the bong breath. That’s um, from what I’ve been told the bong breath smells like, you see what I’m sayin’? So you’re prolly jes smellin’ them there furiously strong Altoids he’s all the time poppin’. But hey, that’s neither here nor there cuz he can’t drive anyway, right? Heheh. Say, can I go ahead and take that ticket off your hands? We’re a little pressed for time as junior, and that’s just a nickname since he’s really named after a negro jazz musician, junior’s got a Swim Babies session at noon, although I don’t see him doin’ much more’n staring at the sparkly water and drooling. Boy’s got what I call a cattywampus of the grey mattah, see? I mean the lad couldn't pour piss out a boot if’n the instructions was written on the heel, ya hear me?”
I signed it, he ripped it, handed it to me and said, “Don’t lose that now. Y’all have a wunnerful day, heaya?”
Playful scenario #3, The Courtroom. “Well Yeronner, I was the designated driver that fine summer morning...”
Aw, nevah you mind.
Labels: family, law enforcement, The South
August 15, 2007
It's not the heat...like hell
.
Oh gawd has it been sweltering in the sultry southern states. We've had triple digits the past several days, and no rain in sight. It's neither a good time to be a farmer nor a farm animal. While my tolerance for my native northern cold has become totally wussified, my fortitude against the southern dog days has improved little if at all. I feel like Pvt. Jerome in Biloxi Blues - "Man it's hot. It's like Africa hot. Tarzan couldn't take this kind of hot."
Well here's fun little story for you. About a month ago our central a/c went kaput. We sent for a man to come peruse the situation and he determined that we had a "porous coil," and since the unit was 11 years old, both the inside and outside units needed to be replaced because all new equipment is on a higher efficiency rating. I was inclined to feel like I did when I took my first car in (1973 Chevy Nova Hatchback) for an oil leak and the mechanic said, "Weeell, you might need a whole new car..." without a trace of sarcasm in his drawl. Anyway, we called for a second opinion and upon inspection of the outside unit No. 2 says, "That's a big old hole in the side there." Porous indeed - it looked like it had been attacked with a hatchet. No. 2 confirmed the "whole new car" theory and backed it up with a quote of only $4,850, tax included. I asked him if the hole looked like mechanical failure. "None that I've ever seen," was his reply. So near as I can figure some neighbor punk came around whilst we were away or Mr. No. 1 was trying to upgrade his service call.
Long story shortened: homeowner's insurance say "okey-dokey," and after three weeks of no central air (we borrowed a couple of window units that barely staved off insanity) we're in the cucumber business once more.
.
Oh gawd has it been sweltering in the sultry southern states. We've had triple digits the past several days, and no rain in sight. It's neither a good time to be a farmer nor a farm animal. While my tolerance for my native northern cold has become totally wussified, my fortitude against the southern dog days has improved little if at all. I feel like Pvt. Jerome in Biloxi Blues - "Man it's hot. It's like Africa hot. Tarzan couldn't take this kind of hot."
Well here's fun little story for you. About a month ago our central a/c went kaput. We sent for a man to come peruse the situation and he determined that we had a "porous coil," and since the unit was 11 years old, both the inside and outside units needed to be replaced because all new equipment is on a higher efficiency rating. I was inclined to feel like I did when I took my first car in (1973 Chevy Nova Hatchback) for an oil leak and the mechanic said, "Weeell, you might need a whole new car..." without a trace of sarcasm in his drawl. Anyway, we called for a second opinion and upon inspection of the outside unit No. 2 says, "That's a big old hole in the side there." Porous indeed - it looked like it had been attacked with a hatchet. No. 2 confirmed the "whole new car" theory and backed it up with a quote of only $4,850, tax included. I asked him if the hole looked like mechanical failure. "None that I've ever seen," was his reply. So near as I can figure some neighbor punk came around whilst we were away or Mr. No. 1 was trying to upgrade his service call.
Long story shortened: homeowner's insurance say "okey-dokey," and after three weeks of no central air (we borrowed a couple of window units that barely staved off insanity) we're in the cucumber business once more.
.
Labels: global warming, heat, Holy Crap, homeowner, madness, The South
April 03, 2007
Southland In The Springtime
.
Even though autumn is my very favorite season and I can't for the life of me figure out the attraction of boiled peanuts, it's a damn fine time to be alive down h'ayhr.
Even though autumn is my very favorite season and I can't for the life of me figure out the attraction of boiled peanuts, it's a damn fine time to be alive down h'ayhr.
In Georgia nights are softer than a whisper
Beneath a quilt somebody's mother made by hand
With the farmland like a tapestry passed down through generations
And the peach trees stitched across the land
There'll be cider up near Helen off the roadside
And boiled peanuts in a bag to warm your fingers
And the smoke from the chimneys meets its maker in the sky
With a song that winter wrote whose melody lingers
And there's something 'bout the southland in the springtime
Where the waters flow with confidence and reason
Though I miss her when I'm gone
It won't ever be too long
Till I'm home again to spend my favorite season
When God made me born a Yankee he was teasin'
There's no place like home and none more pleasin'
Than the southland in the springtime
Labels: music, seasons, The South
January 04, 2007
UPDATE: Clean outta sight
.
ATLANTA, Georgia (AP)...488 communities wiped from this year's version of the state highway map will be restored, the Georgia Department of Transportation said Wednesday. Read the rest of the story.
Georgia Georgia
ATLANTA, Georgia (AP)...488 communities wiped from this year's version of the state highway map will be restored, the Georgia Department of Transportation said Wednesday. Read the rest of the story.
______________________________________________________
A calamity has befallen 488 towns in Walker County in the northwest part of the state lost several of its little communities including Villanow, where the old general store dating back to 1840 is on the National Register of Historic Places (it’s for sale if anyone is interested in a bucolic life as a rural gas hole proprietor). I mean, little placeholders, especially registered ones, deserve respect, right?
On the other hand,
Here is a list of all the ones I think should be reinstated, based on nothing more than it being a cool-sounding name or otherwise rife with southern culture/irony (which to me is at least as valid an argument as wanting to save ink):
Airline
Bemiss
Bill Arp (and the world according to him)
Centerpost
Cloudland
Dewy Rose
Dixie Union (there’s that irony)
Doctortown
Due West
Experiment (why, without chemicals...)
Fairplay
Flintstone (a page right out of history)
Fowlstown
Free Home (with coupon)
Friendship
Hopeulikit (and who wouldn’t?)
Killarney (I hope to spend Christmas there some day)
Magnet (a tourist trap)
Mayday
Mountain Hill (which is it?)
Mulberry Grove (evr’body wants to live in a town called Mulberry Grove)
Nacoochee (a popular place in the
Needmore (near Nacoochee, I’m sure)
New Era
Okefenokee (gotta have a town named after yer most famous swamp)
Ola (que pasa, ecce?)
Phinizy (way out in the countrazizzle)
Poetry Tulip
Snipesville
Retreat (home of the second dessert!)
Rocky Face
Roosterville
Sunsweet
Veazey (Summerti-i-i-ime...)
View (realtors love it)
Wax
Youth
There are several more that I propose for reinstatement on topical grounds:
Any place that has a distinct geographical connection to elsewhere:
Any place that was obviously the name of a beloved wife or dog: Jake, Rowena, Rupert, Roscoe, Rover, Matt.
Places that make pot smokers giggle: Hemp, Leaf, Redbud.
And there are six places where I think at least three should be given a chance to stay if victorious in a last man standing town versus town cage match:
Mount
Nicholasville vs. Nicholsville
Labels: irony, maps, The South, US Geography for $1200 Alex
