"I Would Eat Monkeyshit For a Million Bucks"

So said the blond lady at the party I was at on Saturday night, as she talked about making her submission video for the next Survivor. I didn't get her name, but I know that someday I'll be flipping channels, and a familiar face will pop up on one of the tackier reality shows (they're all tacky), and I will shout "It's the monkeyshit lady!"

Ohio was grand - my bags are packed and I'm ready to move there! The air was clean and smog-free out in the country. Every car had a Support the Troops bumper sticker, and every lawn had a flag. People wore Jesus Saves t-shirts in all seriousness, and I didn't laugh. I used to laugh.

Our trip down was uneventful, with very little hold-up at the US border. This concerns me, because although they stopped my husband to fill out a landing card, they didn't even attempt to match my passport to my face. To my knowledge, they didn't even open it. And they didn't ask about the dog, despite the fact that he had 10lbs of C-4 strapped to his tiny rabies-ravaged body (well, not really, but you see what I mean - no security).

We arrived at our destination around 1:30 on Saturday morning. Although I couldn't see much of what was there, I could easily see what wasn't. There was no pretense. When you live full time in a city like Toronto, lack of pretense can often be mistaken for lack of civilization. Not so. This was small-town, Norman Rockwell, white Methodist America. Land of the Free. Town squares looked like Stars Hollow from the Gilmore Girls, complete with gazebo drapped in red, white and blue bunting. Century homes had candles burning in every window - leaving a light on for us. Pickup trucks had mud on their tires. All was as it should be.

Saturday was the Medieval Faire in the Ashtabula woods. Comedy troupes, juggling acts and fire-eaters, contortionists, lords and ladies, costumers, and lots of food! The tickets were free because my lovely hostess works for Clear Channel, who are one of the sponsors. But they really zinged you on souvenirs and concessions. A bag of roasted pecans was $8!!

Saturday night was a biker/truck driver party and cookout. Plenty of beer and shots, lots of off color jokes, and stories told 'round the fire. Was it redneck? Yes. Did it bother us city folk? Not in the slightest.

So what is a redneck? Is it all about Jeff Foxworthy jokes, or is there more to it than that? From Wikipedia:

A redneck is typically a social conservative; as well as being, rural, working class, and opposed to taxation and regulation (all of these are subject to wild variations). A redneck is almost always a white American whose family has clearly been of rustic and traditional circumstances.

The term was originally used to describe a person of pale complexion who has been sunburned due to outdoor blue collar work. Because some think it applies exclusively to poor, working class whites, it has been regarded by them to mean racist and classist. Many also mistakingly associate all rednecks (negative stereotype) with the Ku Klux Klan.

On the other hand, it is embraced by many, such as the Southern celebrities Jerry Clower and Jeff Foxworthy. While some prefer the terms "country" or "southern", the term redneck is used both as a term of pride and as a derogatory epithet. In one of his stand-up routines, Foxworthy sums up the condition as "a glorious absence of sophistication".

A glorious absence of sophistication? No wonder they scare the shit out of the city mice! I admit, I would be disappointed by the lack of decent sushi available in Youngstown, but I would probably get over it. A redneck is someone who would eat monkeyshit for a million bucks, but it's also someone whose home has a flag in the yard, a welcome mat, and a pot of coffee on for anyone who cares to stop by. Of course, if she doesn't recognize you as you're walking up the driveway, she might shoot you. But it's worth taking the chance.

Sunday morning we slept late, then hit the road for the drive back. Just as we were leaving Ohio and heading into Pennsylvania, we stopped at an old favorite of mine for breakfast: Waffle House. When I journeyed across the U.S. back in late 1995, it seemed there was always a Waffle House at the next exit after I realized I was hungry. It was always open, the food is good and cheap, and everyone is smiling and friendly, whether it's two in the afternoon, or two in the moning. Yesterday was no different. Mr. Right had his first experience with grits. He took my advice and added Tobasco, which made the grimace disappear from his face. As we were leaving, a man wearing a Bush/Cheney 2004 t-shirt was holding the door open for his two little girls. He said good morning. People don't say good morning to strangers in the city. It simply isn't done.

Back on the road, radio cranked and listening to cheesey country music stations, I came across a song that actually made me cry. Not since the day I was caught off guard and heard the song from my mother's funeral on the radio have I spontaneously burst into tears while driving. Perhaps it was the sheer American-ness of it all. Perhaps it was because I had just dropped a few postcards for my adopted soldiers into the mailbox. Maybe it was the waffles. But I cried.

I never thought that this is where I'd settle down.
I thought I'd die an old man back in my hometown.
They gave me this plot of land,
Me and some other men, for a job well done.

There's a big White House sits on a hill just up the road.
The man inside, he cried the day they brought me home.
They folded up a flag and told my Mom and Dad:
"We're proud of your son."

And I'm proud to be on this peaceful piece of property.
I'm on sacred ground and I'm in the best of company.
I'm thankful for those thankful for the things I've done.
I can rest in peace;
I'm one of the chosen ones:
I made it to Arlington.

I remember Daddy brought me here when I was eight.
We searched all day to find out where my grand-dad lay.
And when we finally found that cross,
He said: "Son, this is what it cost to keep us free."

Now here I am, a thousand stones away from him.
He recognized me on the first day I came in.
And it gave me a chill when he clicked his heels,
And saluted me.

And I'm proud to be on this peaceful piece of property.
I'm on sacred ground and I'm in the best of company.
I'm thankful for those thankful for the things I've done.
I can rest in peace;
I'm one of the chosen ones:
I made it to Arlington.

And everytime I hear twenty-one guns,
I know they brought another hero home to us.

And I'm proud to be on this peaceful piece of property.
I'm on sacred ground and I'm in the best of company.
We're thankful for those thankful for the things we've done.
We can rest in peace;
'Cause we are the chosen ones:
We made it to Arlington.

Yeah, dust to dust,
Don't cry for us:
We made it to Arlington.

I will leave it at that for now. It's a good place to end. Maybe tomorrow I will go into how bad the security is heading into Canada. But not now. I need to go wipe my eyes and blow my nose.