You might be
a redneck if…
Fashion Tips by Jeff Foxworthy, You Might Be a Redneck
It is spring
in the Pacific Northwest, gardening capital of the universe. I would liken a
plant nursery to downtown New York City on a Saturday afternoon. Cheek by jowl, gardeners troll the rows of plants, looking for new hybrids, looking for
faithful specimens, and deep in conversation with a random stranger about whether or not the
trailing begonia is better than the common fuchsia.
Now, how do
rednecks and gardeners relate? In the “Greater Seattle Area” there are many a
fine nursery who cater to the wealthy locals. Where you can purchase a 4” wave
petunia for $7.99. Those who don’t mind scouring the outlying areas will do so,
happily paying $2.99 for the same plant. Serious.
Yesterday I
found myself scouring the outlying regions, and visited one of my favorite
haunts – Flower World.
As I tootled
along the highways and bi-ways to get to this remote location, I listened to country
music. I turned off the ancient highway onto a side road, full of ruts, sharp
turns, and grazing deer, and the country music cut out. Not even static. Just
silence. I fiddled, as you do, with the dials on my radio, but found nothing
but… heavy metal.
This begot a
thought. This is going to make me sound like an utter “regionalist” but shouldn’t
music particular to a certain environmental location be available? Classical
music in the city. Pop in suburbs. And yes, country, in the country.
I continued
to ponder this thought as I stood amongst my gardening brethren. Being the “everything
must be designed” person that I am, I had already figured out that in my lime
green pots I was going to put a combination of dark green, coral, salmon, and
dark blue. So, there I was, selecting a collection of plants when I heard a
woman say, “You know I hate lime-green and coral colored plants.”
I made
eye-contact with the very embarrassed young man pulling her cart while he said
to her averted gaze, “Grandma, I think they can be pretty.”
She wasn’t
having any of it, she didn’t even turn to look at him, “No. They are just in
bad taste.” I gave the mid-twenties, plaid-clad, man a smile and shrugged a shoulder.
Just about
then, because I was still standing in front of the Gartenmeister fuchsia’s,
another voice, one quite posh said, “I love your color combinations.” I turned
to see someone who could rival the Queen of England. “Er’, thanks,” I said,
over the background music, which was some kind of bluesy jazz piano piece.
Once Her
Majesty and I chatted about my potting plans, I trudged over to where all
things glaucous were on display.
Here, I
lingered, caressing the soft, furry, and plump leaves as music from the Zen
area gently wafted out through a door left ajar. I collected my array of
plants, chosen for the singular purpose of brightening up a filtered sun area,
and continued along.
Then, a most
magical thing occurred. I took a wrong turn and ended back in the wavy petunia
area, and "When Doves Cry" was belting out the speakers. A handful of people
(those who were in their teens in the 1980’s) began to sing along. It was quite
sweet. A spontaneous tribute. An ode to their past and Prince’s passing. I
found myself grabbing up a tray of purple wave petunias. All summer, as I flip
the dial between country and pop, between classical and jazz, I will see these
cascading pots, and be reminded of one magical man, and one magical
summer.
