Our house in Poplarville, Mississippi came with was a freestanding
basketball hoop - the heavy, tall kind on its own base that takes up valuable
turning space in your driveway.
Like this. But heavier. |
Newly transplanted from the friendly and familiar in Schroon Lake, I felt like a stranger in a strange land in Mississippi. I was here by myself, and Larry wouldn't be here for another month. But a great way to meet new neighbors is by joining local
Facebook yard sale-type pages. I joined
Poplarville and Bogalusa (Louisiana) with the sole intent of getting rid of
some stuff. It has the added benefit of
getting you up close with the locals.
Within minutes of posting a picture of the hoop and asking
$20 for the privilege of taking it away, I had a buyer. Bridgett was from a few towns over and when
her husband got home from work they would be down to pick it up.
I heard them before I saw them. A rough looking Dodge Ram slowly pulled into
the driveway. A sticker on the rear bumper read:
(If you don’t
know what this means, I can’t embarrass myself by explaining it here. Go Google it.)
Bridgett was a chatty sweetheart in a sundress who was
thrilled to death with getting this hoop for their son. Her Army
Reserves husband seemed just the opposite – quiet, clean cut and ramrod
straight, all business and little pleasure.
I found them an odd pairing.
Bridgett impressed me with her ability to simultaneously
tell me her family history and help her husband finagle the hoop onto the bed
of the truck, which was littered with tools.
The base was too heavy to lift, so they decided to just tip the whole
thing, slide it on the bed let the hoop hang off the truck gate. (I have since noticed that lots of people here drive with things
dangling off the back of their vehicles, so it was not unusual.)
This meant getting the back of the truck closer to the hoop
base. Army Reserves looked at me and
said, “Can you drive a standard?” I just
stared at him. Bridgett stopped talking. I looked at her. “I can’t drive a stick,” she said sheepishly,
then dove into the history of her lack of vehicle prowess.
I swallowed. “Ye—ah,
I guess so,” I said, and slowly got into the driver’s seat. This was a
late 80’s Dodge that had been used
and abused. It was utilitarian, nothing more. The gear shift looked like it belonged in an
18 wheeler. I couldn’t tell if reverse
was up and to the left, or down and to the right. I just knew I was going to humiliate
myself. My hesitation gave me away.
Like this. But worse. |
“Up to the left,” Army Reserves yelled.
I started the truck up, got it into gear without grinding
anything, and slowly backed up until he told me to stop. With great relief I killed the engine and got
out. Army Reserves and Bridgett were
smiling at me.
“It just screams redneck, doesn’t it?” he laughed, the first
time I saw him smile, and a lovely smile it was.
And just like that, I felt the ice break around me. I had
made some kind of connection with residents of my new home state. They weren’t scary, they weren’t judgmental,
they were just people and they weren’t out to get me. I laughed with them and said “Bridgett, every
woman should know how to drive a stick.” She then launched into another story about
something involving her father building a swing set.
At least I now had room in the driveway for the movers.