You Know You’re a Redneck When…
You plant a tree that grows 30 feet high in the front seat of a rusted out, dilapidated 1960s convertible in your front yard.
Speaking of redneck, and at the risk of sounding elitist, I’m living in quite a “mixed-use” neighborhood — retirees and blue-collar residents living in mobile and pre-fabricated homes and trailers interspersed with some more traditional, small homes — a couple of miles inland from Bethany Beach, DE for the summer with roommates while I work as a tennis instructor.
As my roommate and tennis teacher colleague says, “We’re surrounded by hillbillies.” The neighbors on one side and in back are constantly burning yard debris, wood, trash and other stuff, sending plumes of smoke drifting in our direction. The neighbor in back makes a fire in what looks like a little volcano made of dirt, gravel, cinder blocks and other construction debris, with a big oil barrel sitting off to the side.
The neighbor on our other side has set up a tent like a gazebo in his driveway where he has chairs and lounges with family in the evening watching cable TV, like camping without having to leave home or go without modern luxuries.
I like my summer neighborhood. It’s peaceful and convenient. It’s also a little slice of American life that provides amusement, especially since I live my “real life” except for this summer job in a place that tightly regulates everything a homeowner can do.