City Girl Gone Wild

 

Take a girl who grew up in Detroit with all the trappings of urban life and drop her in the middle of the rural Thumb and its bound to make for some craziness as she learns to adapt. I learned quickly to be cautious about sharing stories of my follies with my co-workers; they took great joy in affectionately calling me a “cityiot”.

It’s a 15 minute drive to the grocery store, heck to anywhere. And let’s be clear that store is not the 24-hour mega-mart kind of deal. No more middle of the night Dorito runs for this girl. More troublesome was my yearning for the fabulous cuisine I once took for granted. Strolled into said grocery one day with a hankering for a large bagel, cream cheese and lox, ah, my memories of Southfield. Passed by the deli and looked for those lovely, fishy, pink treasures, not a salmon in sight. I stopped an employee and inquired where the lox could be found, “in the hardware section”, he responds. Oh my, locks would be all I could find that day.

 

My first Fall living in the Thumb was going very well, it is truly a pleasure when you have acres of your own forest to explore. In the back yard playing with my beloved dogs when I heard gunfire. I about had a stroke and hit the deck. That was really close. Laying on the ground and fortunately had the cell phone. Also, fortunately, I did not call 911, thank God for small miracles. Called the husband, screaming, “someone is shooting”! “Well, of course they are”, he calmly responds, it is opening day of hunting season. Oh.

On our way home from Vassar one morning, a town about 20 minutes west. The hubby and I are talking and driving just a relaxed Sunday afternoon. All of a sudden he slams on the brakes, a cow in the road, yes, a cow. So, I am merely glad we and the beast are ok. Figured we would be on our way. Not a chance, the hubby has to play bovine Good Samaritan. He sees the broken fence in a field to the right where the cow made her escape and the little farm nearby. So, me and the man get out of the car and somehow manage to guide the massive beast back to the barn, very comical for Mrs. Cow. I am sure stubborn must have been her middle name.

Cows are quite the thing here. But, a normal thing for my husband as you see he is the one who grew up in the Thumb and dragged his wife to live in the land of open fields. Some of his relatives have a dairy farm and take much joy in calling their cows hamburger, roast and such, just about ruined it for me. But, you get used to it. Later that summer when I went out to get the mail and the neighbor’s black and white beauty was strolling up the drive it was not even a thang.