When you think of the South, you may think of things like roadkill and rednecks, slow drawls and slower people, but for those readers who aren't Southern or who haven't had the pleasure of visiting this great region, I'd like to be the person who turns around any misconceptions you may have about my corner of the world.
However, I'm not going to be doing that today. Yep, here I sit: a Southerner who is writing about roadkill. Now before you stop reading, this is not going to be a recipe post--or even a food post for that matter--regarding the finer points of roadkill preparation and cooking. Contrary to popular belief, just because I'm from the South doesn't mean I partake in highway delicacies. Nope, this is a post about the psyche of the roadkill...or rather, the psyche of the animal before they became roadkill.
My husband and I had a very interesting and engrossing conversation on this subject the other night. At least I thought it was interesting and engrossing, and now you must be subjected to it, whether you like it or not.
The conversation was sparked by a random thought from Jeremy. To set the scene, we were driving to my parent's house for dinner. The road we travel is a winding, scenic "country road" with equal parts woods and pastures and typically lots of critters. I was in the passenger seat writing random notes for my novel. Out of nowhere, Jeremy says: "You know what I wonder? I wonder if birds have this elaborate society where the young boy birds challenge each other to dive in front of cars?"
I assume a bird flew out in front of the car and that's what sparked this random thought, but I wouldn't be surprised if this popped into his mind out of nowhere. My man is randomly brilliant, and he thinks all the time. Anyway, I looked up from my note-taking and said the first thing that popped into my fiercely feminist mind: "Why would only the boy birds dive in front of cars?"
I'm sure he thought, "oh, crap." He kept his eyes glued to the road. "Because that seems like something young boys would do."
"Girls would do it, too." I shot back. "There's such thing as tom boys and tom birds. If I was a bird, I'd totally do that."
I imagine at this point he thought it better to change the subject. "Forget birds. I wonder what the heck squirrels are thinking when they run out into the road? I mean, squirrels are crazy. I'll bet they go out into the road based on a dare from other squirrels."
We progressed to discuss the fact that squirrels were probably like the Jackass guys. They probably say to their squirrel friends, "Hey, watch this!," and stupidly run into the road for kicks, playing that dangerous game of dodgeball with a car. But the thing that gets me about squirrels is how they run out in front of you and then change their minds. It's like they run into the road, totally freak out when they realize they're in the middle of the road, and then try to turn around and go the other way. Half the time, if the freakin' squirrel would just keep going in the same direction, it wouldn't get hit. And I hate to admit it, but I'm one of those drivers who will slow down and wait for the squirrel to make up it's dang mind. I know some people who just keep going, and if they hit it, they hit it. I like animals too much to be that person though.
In spite of the daredevil nature of the squirrel, they are not the most commonly spotted roadkill in my neck of the woods. Nope, that coveted award goes to the possum (and no, I do not spell possum with the "o" even though it comes up as misspelled on my spell check). The hubby and I decided that possums probably don't have a good reason for crossing the road, but because they're so slow, they have the misfortune of being tragic victims of death by automobile. And it's sadder still because possums get such a bad rap. Sure, they aren't the most attractive animals in the world. Sure, their tail makes them look like a giant rat. Sure, they carry diseases and are as mean as snakes. Sure, they hiss wildly at you if you ever get near them. Wait, where was I going with this?
So, there you have it. A peak inside one of mine and Jeremy's deep philosophical conversations. A look into the complex mind of a Southern lady. A study on the intricate decision-making skills of suicidal animals.
By the way, do you have any theories on why the possum crossed the road? And why is that dang joke about a chicken? I've never seen a chicken cross the road.
However, I'm not going to be doing that today. Yep, here I sit: a Southerner who is writing about roadkill. Now before you stop reading, this is not going to be a recipe post--or even a food post for that matter--regarding the finer points of roadkill preparation and cooking. Contrary to popular belief, just because I'm from the South doesn't mean I partake in highway delicacies. Nope, this is a post about the psyche of the roadkill...or rather, the psyche of the animal before they became roadkill.
My husband and I had a very interesting and engrossing conversation on this subject the other night. At least I thought it was interesting and engrossing, and now you must be subjected to it, whether you like it or not.
The conversation was sparked by a random thought from Jeremy. To set the scene, we were driving to my parent's house for dinner. The road we travel is a winding, scenic "country road" with equal parts woods and pastures and typically lots of critters. I was in the passenger seat writing random notes for my novel. Out of nowhere, Jeremy says: "You know what I wonder? I wonder if birds have this elaborate society where the young boy birds challenge each other to dive in front of cars?"
I assume a bird flew out in front of the car and that's what sparked this random thought, but I wouldn't be surprised if this popped into his mind out of nowhere. My man is randomly brilliant, and he thinks all the time. Anyway, I looked up from my note-taking and said the first thing that popped into my fiercely feminist mind: "Why would only the boy birds dive in front of cars?"
I'm sure he thought, "oh, crap." He kept his eyes glued to the road. "Because that seems like something young boys would do."
"Girls would do it, too." I shot back. "There's such thing as tom boys and tom birds. If I was a bird, I'd totally do that."
I imagine at this point he thought it better to change the subject. "Forget birds. I wonder what the heck squirrels are thinking when they run out into the road? I mean, squirrels are crazy. I'll bet they go out into the road based on a dare from other squirrels."
 |
| "Hey, y'all! Watch this!" |
In spite of the daredevil nature of the squirrel, they are not the most commonly spotted roadkill in my neck of the woods. Nope, that coveted award goes to the possum (and no, I do not spell possum with the "o" even though it comes up as misspelled on my spell check). The hubby and I decided that possums probably don't have a good reason for crossing the road, but because they're so slow, they have the misfortune of being tragic victims of death by automobile. And it's sadder still because possums get such a bad rap. Sure, they aren't the most attractive animals in the world. Sure, their tail makes them look like a giant rat. Sure, they carry diseases and are as mean as snakes. Sure, they hiss wildly at you if you ever get near them. Wait, where was I going with this?
 |
| Cute and slow and misunderstood. |
By the way, do you have any theories on why the possum crossed the road? And why is that dang joke about a chicken? I've never seen a chicken cross the road.
