So some fags move to the countryside, and now it is an enlightened place?
What about the thousands of small towns WITHOUT cheese-making faggots? The ones with half a dozen churches, trailers for homes, pigs in the sty, cars on cinder blocks, sofas on the porch? Not enlightened. Needs some gays doing artsy things to have THAT.
Sure, to an elite, having a couch on the porch is tacky, but to the country boy, it’s just to nice outside to have to sit in sterile, dark house. Sit outside and watch the grandeur of nature!
A car in the yard up on blocks is a project. You loved that car once. You WILL get running again. You don’t give up.
Rural life—away from the hustle and bustle—is closer to nature. Humans feel it more here. What birds are singing tells you the time of year. The feel of the air on a humid morning tells you today will be a scorcher. At night, what do you hear? Deafening noise of insects? Frogs peeping? A poorwill singing? The sound of rain marching through the forest right before it hit’s your home; the sound it makes on the tin roof.
Knowing if you’re in need, strangers will still be good Samaritans and help out. That guy in the pickup truck with the chain to pull you out of the mud, the woman who brings you a pie because you said her apple trees in bloom were lovely.
Walking up the long driveway from the bus stop on a warm sunny Fall day, with the riot of colors that the trees wear. The sound of geese heading South, the smell of burning leaves, the sense that you’re part of Mother Nature.
That to me is rural life, not artsy gays making cheese seeking recycling.
“artsy gays making cheese seeking recycling.”
This is basically what the whole state of Vermont has become.