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Re: My White Trashness

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For permission to publish my weekly/monthly column, View from the North 40, or to reproduce any website content, written or graphic, contact:
Pam Burke (that's me) at saddlesore(at)hwy2(dot)com, or (406) 265-7338.

White Trash Window Treatment
by Pam Burke

Maybe it's a regional thing, or maybe it's an inherent quality of mine and the nut-jobs I hang with, but we -- meaning me and the nut-jobs -- don't seem to live in houses that measure up to the "country homes" featured in the glossy magazines.

Our consensus is that a real country home features -- like our homes in the rural backwash of America -- TV reception courtesy of rabbit ear antennae mounted on a 2-by-4 and weighted to the roof with a broken cinder block. The in-home air exchange system is provided naturally by the loose seams around doors and windows.

A real country home is an 87-year-old structure built with the keen precision of craftsmen swilling moonshine as they paced off the foundation dimensions and measured lumber cuts by spreading their arms wide and saying, "Yuh, it needs to be this long, plus a hand-width."

Or, it's a formerly abandoned trailer house, with the gaping hole in the wall refurbished using lumber salvaged from the old stockyard.

Our country homes are landscaped with raised weed beds sprouting from porcelain tubs and toilets left in the yard after the last plumbing remodel -- completed "that year the dog we had before this one passed on." And the landscaping extends to the gully out back where all the old cars and broken appliances are stockpiled for the ambiance -- and the parts. These treasures are retained because we may repair the items to their former glory one day and because we pride ourselves in our frugal-minded ingenuity to imagine possibility in our own mundane discards. Thus the bench seat from the old pickup truck becomes the love seat on the front porch.

We are beyond any need for lavishness, and we honor functionality, therefore we can have an impromptu barbecue for 20 by digging a ragged hole in the lawn for a fire pit. Given enough beer to fuel that #2 spade shovel, we could dig an Olympic-sized swimming hole and have us a real party.

Admittedly, this topic was inspired by a weekend incident at my white trash country estate that left the window in our front door shattered, with glass shards sprayed over the front steps and the gravel driveway. The car was even speckled with minute glass chips. John and I did what we could to rectify the situation until the stores opened on Monday. We swept clean both the front step and the gravel drive, hosed down the car and, most importantly, duct taped cardboard over the window opening -- with the good tape and a stout piece of cardboard to hold against high winds and heavy spring snows.

The new window should arrive in only about five or six weeks. I may paint the door in celebration, though the subtle charm of its original gray primer has suited us well over the years. Ah yes, life in the tres chic lane.

Ironically, I was compelled to look through another one of those glossy "country homes" magazines just this morning.

I could imagine that if the same window tragedy had occurred at any one of those "country homes" an ace team of carpenters and engineers would have helicoptered in a whole new door within the hour. A squadron of exterior decorators, all named Roberto, would've swept up the glass, re-marbled the front walk and re-laid sod that's bioengineered to feel like velour and sprout hearty roots upon contact with groomed soil. Of course, the glass-sprinkled Porsche would've been scrapped immediately and replaced with a new hybrid Hummer that gets 10 miles to the battery.

I stared at those glossy pictures and was reminded of the best quote of the day from one of my white trash companions: "They call that country living? What country are they from?" And I knew in my heart of hearts that, if that were my picture-perfect "country home," I'd wait until the last emergency repairman genuflected and scurried from my moneyed presence, then I'd fetch my hammer from the front closet and tack an old towel from the rag box over the door window as a curtain. I'd be proud to know I was getting another 10 years of good use out of sturdy fabric like that.


Truth in humor writing analysis:

Maybe it's a regional thing, or maybe it's an inherent quality of mine and the nut-jobs I hang with, but we -- meaning me and the nut-jobs -- don't seem to live in houses that measure up to the "country homes" featured in the glossy magazines. (This article was inspired by an actual conversation between me and some friends.)

Our consensus is that a real country home features -- like our homes in the rural backwash of America -- TV reception courtesy of rabbit ear antennae mounted on a 2-by-4 and weighted to the roof with a broken cinder block. (me) The in-home air exchange system is provided naturally by the loose seams around doors and windows. (me, T, K)

A real country home is an 87-year-old structure built with the keen precision of craftsmen swilling moonshine as they paced off the foundation dimensions and measured lumber cuts by spreading their arms wide and saying, "Yuh, it needs to be this long, plus a hand-width." (T, K -- mine is a 45-year-old trailer house that meets that quality standard)

Or, it's a formerly abandoned trailer house, with the gaping hole in the wall refurbished using lumber salvaged from the old stockyard. (me -- we were going to live here 2 years while I finished college. I finished, but we forgot to move out ... for 18 years.)

Our country homes are landscaped with raised weed beds sprouting from porcelain tubs and toilets left in the yard after the last plumbing remodel -- completed "that year the dog we had before this one passed on." And the landscaping extends to the gully out back where all the old cars and broken appliances are stockpiled for the ambiance -- and the parts. (me, T -- for both) These treasures are retained because we may repair the items to their former glory one day and because we pride ourselves in our frugal-minded ingenuity to imagine possibility in our own mundane discards. (me -- and John) Thus the bench seat from the old pickup truck becomes the love seat on the front porch. (me)

We are beyond any need for lavishness, and we honor functionality, (me most of all) therefore we can have an impromptu barbecue for 20 by digging a ragged hole in the lawn for a fire pit. (K) Given enough beer to fuel that #2 spade shovel, we could dig an Olympic-sized swimming hole and have us a real party.

Admittedly, this topic was inspired by a weekend incident at my white trash country estate that left the window in our front door shattered, with glass shards sprayed over the front steps and the gravel driveway. The car was even speckled with minute glass chips. John and I did what we could to rectify the situation until the stores opened on Monday. We swept clean both the front step and the gravel drive, hosed down the car and, most importantly, duct taped cardboard over the window opening -- with the good tape and a stout piece of cardboard to hold against high winds and heavy spring snows. (True)

The new window should arrive in only about five or six weeks. (Took 3 months) I may paint the door in celebration, though the subtle charm of its original gray primer has suited us well over the years. (True) Ah yes, life in the tres chic lane.

Ironically, I was compelled to look through another one of those glossy "country homes" magazines just this morning. (True)

I could imagine that if the same window tragedy had occurred at any one of those "country homes" an ace team of carpenters and engineers would have helicoptered in a whole new door within the hour. A squadron of exterior decorators, all named Roberto, would've swept up the glass, re-marbled the front walk and re-laid sod that's bioengineered to feel like velour and sprout hearty roots upon contact with groomed soil. Of course, the glass-sprinkled Porsche would've been scrapped immediately and replaced with a new hybrid Hummer that gets 10 miles to the battery.

I stared at those glossy pictures and was reminded of the best quote of the day from one of my white trash companions: "They call that country living? What country are they from?" (Thanks for the line A) And I knew in my heart of hearts that, if that were my picture-perfect "country home," I'd wait until the last emergency repairman genuflected and scurried from my moneyed presence, then I'd fetch my hammer from the front closet and tack an old towel from the rag box over the door window as a curtain. (pitifully true) I'd be proud to know I was getting another 10 years of good use out of sturdy fabric like that.


I've started a self-help program and am learning to think and act in non-white trash ways. It'll take some time to reform, but we are seeing progress. The door is painted -- there's no curtain, but at least there's no towel -- and the yard is procelain free ....



For permission to reproduce any website content, written or graphic, or to publish my weekly/monthly column, View from the North 40,
contact Pam Burke (that's me) at saddlesore(at)hwy2(dot)com, or (406) 265-7338.

This page and all its contents © 2008 by Pamela J. Burke, Havre MT 59501