COUNTRY GIRL

They say that you can judge a lot about a person by the books they have on their bedside table. If the books I have received of late are any indication, then I'd have to say that my friends are brilliant, soulful, warrior women indeed.

The other day I arrive home from Little Lady's school play to a sparkling silver envelope in the box. This time I recognize the handwriting...like that of an architect or someone whose mind thinks with sharp precision. (They also say you can tell alot about a person by their handwriting). I open the package and sure 'nuff it's from my sister-friend in Memphis. Maker of Saints by Thulani Davis.

Now, here's the thing. I had that book in my possession many many moons ago; a time when I wasn't ready. But I was drawn to it. Tried it but couldn't hang. I took it back to the library disappointed. Something about the language and, I realize now, my own lack of sophistication with understanding and being patient with, plot. I love Thulani Davis's spirit and I truly enjoy reading her work in the Village Voice. Aside from that, she's also an ordained Buddhist priest. And so my friend, knowing where I am right now, knowing the space I'm operating in, sends me this book. No forewarning. No, "Hey sistergirl, keep an eye out on the mail. I sent you something." Nothing. Nada. Just like true friends do.

But wait. I've never laid eyes on my sisterfriend. We met out here in the wilderness some time ago. She's a lover of words and a fierce writer and a true to the core artist and that is what united us so deeply.

But wait. She told me recently that when trying to choose between a northern MFA program and a southern, she chose the southern school because she is a country girl at heart. Find her somewhere in a dainty white cottage, growing tulips and pansies, painting her rooms azure and fire orange and red and carnation pink perhaps. Find her growing vegetables and making handmade cards for her friends. Find her running to the well to pull up fresh, cold water. Find her on a porch swing, legs tucked beneath her, sipping lemonade and reading a novel. Find her, writing longhand on yellow legal pads out on a blanket in a field of lavendar, composing her next bestseller. Find her with real flowers tucked on her hip as she takes command on the stage reading her poems. But don't look for her in the city.

Huh? Me, a city girl at heart, I said. Give me the metro, theatre tickets, that meat-on-a-stick that they sell in New York. Give me cafes and lattes and that pizza so greasy and cheesy that just the sight of it clogs the arteries. Give me the Guggenheim and the Whitney, Central Park and Soho. Don't forget to throw in the South Street Seaport and a walking tour through Harlem. Give me the Nuyorican and Caroline's and Sylvia's and don't dare forget Two Steps Down in Brooklyn.

But wait.

There is a country road near my home that I frequently turn onto. It's the last of only a few. I find that I drive this road whenever I feel the need to clear my mind. The road reminds me of my sisterfriend. It must be a warrior woman road for this road exists smack dab in the middle of typical suburbia. It has survived the sprawl and the residents will not allow the town planners to run their proposed six lane monstrosity through this small section of heaven. It is a winding, two lane road. One lane running north, the other south. Blink and you may run into oncoming traffic. It's not a road designed for changing the radio station or talking on the cell phone. It's a grip your wheel and pay attention kind of road. A no-sidewalks-kinda-road. Beautiful victorians with wide, wooden porches squat in the distance. Well worn rockers sit on the porches not for decoration as you find in suburbia, but for daily use. Cottages with window flower boxes and gingham curtains. White sheets flapping on the clothes line like waving hands. Tires on ropes hang from century old trees filled with wide-winged cicadas that no one is trying to kill. Children at play. (Play? What's that?) Playing with sand and hand shovels and trowels. Muddy shoes at the doors edge. Garden gloves beside juniper bushes. Magnolia Trees. Bicycles. And no matter what's going on on the main road, no matter how much smog is coming from someone's gas guzzling SUV, no matter whether a fire is burning the whole city down, somehow, back here on this road the air is filled with a sweetness that makes you want to open your mouth and taste it.

This road reminds me of my sisterfriend, Jamey. And everytime I drive upon it, I think of her. A road that reflects a different kind of life; a life that honors both the old and the new. A life that treasures nature and fresh air and good, hearty dirt. A road that forces you to slow the heck down, for nothing is so important that you have to kill yourself trying to get there. A road that makes you hang up the cell phone and say, "Hey, I'll talk to you later." A road that makes you just be silent, to think and ponder and wonder and dream. A road that reminds you that life is still good. A road where life slows down to see the goodness rather than the tragedy. Truly, a diamond in the rough.

This is my friend Jamey. Truly a diamond in the rough turning me, a city girl, into a country girl at heart.

I love you, J.

--ANGEL