Country at Heart

Why Country People Talk So Loud

Country at Heart 

This title may have an obvious answer, but I want to break it down a little further, based on my experience growing up in the country. When you live in the country, I'm talking "big country" where the sky is the limit, with lots of open space and a landscape that appears to have no end, your world is bigger than life itself. We grew up talking as though we wanted the people in the next town to hear us. For instance. if you are in the front yard and want someone to bring you the rake that you left in the backyard, you have to knock it up a few octaves in order for them to hear you.

If your neighbor is halfway back home before you realize you forgot to tell her something, you run behind her. When you think you're within hearing distance, you let out a holler. If she can't hear you, then you know you have to close the gap a little more. In the city, it's considered rude to holler. In the country, it's not. Raising our voice is just the normal way country folks communicate with each other or their stubborn, hard-headed animals that act as though they are deaf. In rural areas, unless you are within a few feet of someone, while they may can hear you, they can't decipher what you are saying. So, it's OK to up your already high-pitched voice tone a little bit higher.

We never had livestock, but we could hear our neighbors hollering for their cows and horses if they were way down in the pasture somewhere. If that’s where they are, a normal voice range won’t do. Sometimes, though, even the loudest holler doesn't work. If you really want your four-legged beasts and they are not within hollering distance, you have to go on a wild-goose chase before belting out another holler.

The Milk Maid is smart. She got tired of hollering every day. When it's milking time and if her heifer hasn’t found her way back to the barn on her own, she wanders through the woods looking for her cow with the heavy udder, hoping to hear the jingling bell that she tied, with a lock, around the cow's neck. That way, she doesn't have to raise her voice, even the slightest bit.

Most country people feel as though they “own” the space around them, even if that space is 5 miles away. Living in the wide, open area called "country" gives them a sense of freedom and ownership of their immediate and not-so-immediate surroundings. If we talk or scream to the top of our voices, that is OK, as long as we aren't exploding in somebody's ear. Whenever we want to, we holler. Not just when we’re at a ball game but anytime we feel like it. That’s our way of speaking to whatever is in our world, no matter how far away the whatever is.

Kids love exercising their throat muscles — not at anybody or anything in particular, but just because they can. Hollering is a game and sport to them. The same was true with us. When we weren't someplace where we had to be quiet, we threw caution to the wind. Like someone yelling through a bull-horn, we took our liberty in hearing how loudly we could talk. 

Our house was about a quarter of a mile from the school house. Before I was old enough to attend, I would sit on our front porch. During recess, I would hear the students playing and hollering at each other, especially while playing ball. Though I couldn't distinguish their words, I could hear their muffled voices.

Another fun thing to do was stand near the road, face the school house, take in a deep breath and holler as loudly as we could. Since the building was empty, her booming echo came hollering back at us, word-for-word what we had just yelled at her.

Hollering is very much a part of rural peoples' lives. We do it every day and don't think a thing in the world about it. It's our way of attempting to communicate effectively. For the most part, in wide open spaces that appear never to end you have to lift your voice to the heavens in order to be heard and understood clearly and precisely. And to this day, I'm not sure I have gotten all of the "country" holler out of me. I still have an extraordinarily loud voice and constantly have to practice speaking lowly and softly.

I guess it's true that you can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl.

Photo by Getty Images/Imgorthand


Country at HeartI don’t understand how it comes into being, but I just love when, all of a sudden, I look across the horizon and there it is. Red and blue and yellow and green…and whatever other colors. I had a million chances to snap a pic, but then, I don't think I had ever seen a camera. But the neat thing about rainbows is that, from time-to-time, they reoccur, gracing the skies with their heartwarming appearance.

Folklore has some tales about rainbows. The most popular one, and you’ve probably heard it, too, is that there is a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow. Now, I know that is not true by any stretch of anybody's imagination. Still, as a child, I wanted to find out. Being an inquisitive little girl, I also wanted to know where on the earth the rainbow started and where it ended. I imagined it stretching from the East Coast to somewhere in the Midwest. I didn't think it went all the way to California, but perhaps it did, though I doubt it.

There is another widely-circulated tale about chasing a rainbow, perhaps to find the pot of gold, before that mass of colors disappears. I had better sense than to run across the field trying to reach those indescribably beautiful colors. In my mind I chased it, but in reality I knew it was too far away to get to before it evaporated into thin air. So my second best was to stare at that colorful, semi-circle way up in the sky until I could no longer see any trace of those dazzling, kaleidoscope colors.

Here's what I always wondered about rainbows. After a storm, a shower, a drizzle, or even the slightest precipitation from the sky, those magical entities strode to center stage and decorated the heavens — aflame in the most vivid colors imaginable. No doubt scientists can explain everything you want to know about rainbows, plus some, but I can't. As a Christian family, we believed God flung that mist into the sky, then took His paint brush and added the most vibrant colors He could find. He knew I like bright, bold colors, and he also knew I would love staring at his brief artwork beaming across that wide expanse.

Perhaps it’s just my imagination, but the rainbows of my childhood (and I saw plenty) seem far more dazzling than those that I see today. They even appeared closer, more real, and projected a more human-like persona, if that makes sense. Maybe because there weren’t skyscrapers and other building to get in their way, they seemed closer, felt more personal and much more a part of the landscape than rainbows today. 

Its sudden, mysterious appearance touched my heart so deeply. When it showed up, it almost always caught me off guard, but when I first caught a glimpse of it, I’d stop dead in my tracks and stare as long as it lingered in my corner of the sky. Then again, I may be too sentimental about the things in nature where I lived and grew up. Be that as it may. City rainbows are OK, even though I rarely see them. But I still prefer my country rainbows. I guess the memories make them more special than the city rainbows.

To me, a rainbow looks like a half-circle, curtain hanging of its own accord. In keeping with the thought of chasing rainbows, whenever I saw one, that's exactly what I wanted to do — run across the field and glide my little bony fingers up and down that thick concentration of vibrantly living colors. Most of all, I wish I had some kind of magical power that would make that arch stay right where it was, so the next day when I looked up toward the sky, it would still be there, its colors glowing as boldly as they were the day before. My Rainbow!

Photo by Getty Images/melki76

The Long Walk to Church: Part 2

Country at HeartFragrant wildflowers bloomed along the roadside and down into the ditches. Their deliciously sweet aromas drifted by and caressed our noses as they faded into thin air. But we didn't have time to stop and pick ‘em, and we didn't have time to smell the roses, either. I waved at the beautiful monarch butterflies as they flitted from bush to bush. Then I swatted at the bumble bees as they buzzed dizzily through the hot, humid air, kissing flowers and spreading their sweet nectar from one blossom to another. As we gazed across the vast landscape, the soft, green grass looked so inviting. I wanted so badly to go and wallow on it for a while, but since we were wearing our Sunday best, we couldn't do that. Plus, we didn’t have time to go “fielding” that day.
Little birdy-birds chirped from high up in treetops, their spindly, crow-like feet perched precariously on thin, leafy branches blown by summer’s gentle breeze. Cows meandered through thick, grassy pastures or relaxed under the biggest shade tree they could find; shielding themselves from the sweltering hot sun, their long tails swishing from side-to-side swatting bothersome flies as they chewed their cuds over and over and over again. Unlike us, they didn’t have to go to church, so they could kick back under their favorite tree for as long as they wanted. They were so laid-back that they didn’t even seem bothered by those leechy black birds bumming a ride on their hairy backs. Since they were content with those freeloaders, we didn’t try to shoo 'em away. I was too scared to go into the pasture anyway, so we just kept right on trucking.
When we walked a mile or two on a clear, cloudless day, the sun was shining so strongly that even the dirt was uncomfortably hot. If it is a real Southern summer day, it is hot and humid, so at the midway point we rested under a sprawling shade tree, but we couldn’t linger too long. When we got to the end of that second lane, it dead-ended into an enclosed pasture. Then we turned right onto "Sleepy Hollow" — the most peaceful stretch I have ever trod. At that point, the hot, sandy road gave way to a much cooler carpet underneath our feet. With so many overhanging branches, that path looked like a mile-long canopy of arms stretched out over our sweaty heads. Those giant trees reached across that narrow, dusty road and shook hands with each other. As they did, the sun faded into the background and that shady stretch became a very pleasant walk on a too-hot day.
We finally breathed a sigh of relief and enjoyed the scenery on that last mile before we got to church. If we walked the entire distance barefooted and carried our shoes and socks, we stopped up the road from the church and finished getting dressed. Then, beaming like bright sunflowers, we walked into the sanctuary in clean white socks and shiny, black patent-leather "Sunday-go-to-meeting" church shoes on ... just like the girls who rode to church in their family's old, run-down "limousine.”

cows in field
Photo by Getty Images/R-J-Seymour

The Long Walk to Church: Part 1

Country at HeartWe lived about 3 miles from our church and loved going there, especially on "big" event Sundays. My father went to church in the “old country" near Emmett, where he grew up. We always had a car, but sometimes, if there was a "big” day at both dad's church and ours, he needed the car more than we did. So, if we wanted to go to church, we had to walk.

There was Sunday school every Sunday, and on first Sundays there was a morning service. On special Sundays, we had dinner on the ground between the morning and the afternoon services. However, we didn’t take those long walks to church because we were starving for a delicious meal. We were simply church-going folks whether or not food was served. 

I can't say how many times we walked to church, because similar experiences seem to fade into one. I do remember, though, that we did, on occasion, have to walk to church. For us country folks, walking is no big deal. It is just as natural to us as water is to a fish. When you live in the country, you walk all the time even if you aren’t wearing comfortable tennis shoes, toting an umbrella or wearing hats to shield your head from the simmering hot sun. So, if we wanted to go to church and the car wasn’t available, we simply got dressed and hit the road.

Though we were poor country folks, we were well-dressed and wanted to be as fresh as daisies when we strolled into church. So on each walking-to-church Sunday, we left the house as early as possible so we didn't have to rush. If we walked too fast, we would be drenched with sweat by the time we got there. While we could somewhat take our time or even rest under a welcoming shade tree at about the midway point, still we had to pace ourselves so we would have enough time to get to church before the first service started. However, regardless to how early we left home walking, because of the distance, getting there in time for Sunday school was out of the question.

When we left home, we headed west, walking at a steady pace and taking in whatever scenery there was to take in. There weren’t many houses along our route, but at whatever was there to gaze at, other than those ubiquitous Arkansas pines, we took a long, hard look. With walking being such a slow pace, our looking time was longer than if we had been riding in a car, where everything goes by quickly.

After about a mile, we turned left at MrTom Rainer's house and then traveled south for another mile down a lane that had plum orchards and black berry patches galore but not a single house. Walking on country roads is nothing like walking on smooth, even, city sidewalks. Those rocky, unpaved trails are about as rough and as dusty as they can be. That was especially true of that particular stretch. It was the sandiest road I’d ever walked on, almost like walking on a beach. Such terrain is not conducive for fast walking. Even if you aren’t wearing dressy shoes, walking on soft, shifting sand slows you down considerably. The dirt is loose, like finely-sifted flour, and your feet sink down into it without any effort. Thus, it takes longer to traverse than when walking on compressed dirt.

country road
Photo by Adobe Stock/johnsroad7

Pickin' Clover

Country at HeartAs a curious little girl, I always had my ears open to interesting and almost unbelievable tales, and my hands were always anxious to test those way-out stories that I had heard.  And with that, I'll tell you about my experience in the clover field.

Folklore is that if you find a four-leaf clover it will bring you good luck, and, of course, I was always looking for something that would make my days out in the countryside a little bit better. So, one day I decided to find a four-leaf clover and see what good fortune it would bring me.

I didn't have to go far to start my search because there was a field between the pine forest and our yard. I don’t think clovers are considered flowers, and I don’t think they bloom, but they easily sprout up among flowers and other vines that bloom. So, when no one was around, I ventured into that patch. I'm not sure why I didn't want anyone to see me during my desperate search, but I remember that I didn't ask anyone to go clover huntin' with me.

When I got to my destination, I got down on my knees. Then I slowly and methodically started spreading the grasses and weeds and turning the leaves of the clover "flowers," carefully plucking them up one by one and taking a good look at each. I searched and searched and searched for about half a day without seeing one clover with four leaflets.

Finally, I got tired of turning grass and clover leaflets and began to think that, perhaps, clovers only have three prongs after all, and whoever told me about the four-pronged ones was lying to see if I was naive enough to go looking for a four-leafed one.  About that time, not only had I concluded that I was wasting my time, but I started feeling quite foolish looking for something that maybe didn't even exist.

Eventually, after a rather lengthy and exhausting search trying to find my “good-luck charm,” I finally gave up; packed up my bags, so to speak, and trudged back home, concluding that if clovers have four leaves, they would luckily grow in some other girl's yard and not in mine. You know what they call “freaks of nature?” Well, at that time, I thought a four-leaf clover was one until I saw one online. At this point, I may never see one in person, at least not by my hands plucking one from some field somewhere.

Anyway, it is a fact that four-leaf clovers exist, but they are rare. And to this day I have not seen one of those “lucky” clovers, partially because since I left the country I've never had the opportunity, nor the inclination, to go huntin’ long and hard enough for one. And by the way, I never told anyone about my clover search, mainly because I didn't want to be laughed at for looking for something that I wasn't sure exists.

Photo by Adobe Stock/knelson20

Springtime in Bloom

Country at HeartThis early-year season brings my favorite things — chirping birds, flitting butterflies, sweet honeysuckles draping over walls and fences, and those beautiful daffodils sticking their heads up through the cold, spring ground. Those pretty yellow flowers are the joy of my springtime. When I was young, as soon as their yellow petals opened I gleefully plucked them until I gathered enough to make my first spring bouquet. Then I gingerly took them home, carrying them ever-so-gently, as though they were babies that I was careful not to hurt.

Flowers are the love of my life, and it just wouldn't be spring to me without those attractive, eye-catching petals atop those long green stems. They make springtime complete, and I always take time to stop and smell the roses. I can hardly wait until the first frilly yellow daffodils pop their heads up from the cool, spring soil. When I see those first, fashionably-dressed beauties, I know spring has sprung. It's amazing how everything in nature knows when the seasons change. Just at the right time Mother Nature bursts out of hiding and gets busy doing whatever she has to do during this warm, inviting, and enjoyable season.

Daffodils are my favorite flowers. God knew I would fall in love with them, so each year He sprinkled golden-yellow daffodil seeds all up and down the road near our house. The first time I saw those pretty, deep yellow blossoms swaying in the early springtime breeze, I ran down the road and picked every gorgeous flower in sight. Not only are they a beautiful sight for the eyes, but they are so independent, too. They grow without any personal care or special nurturing. They only need the rain from the heavens to nourish their bodies. Each spring I could, without fail, expect the ditches along the roadside to be ablaze with my favorite trumpet daffodils ... and they always were.

After I gathered my sweet-smelling bouquets of blooms, I hurried home to look for something to put them in. Now, my poor, country family had never heard of or even seen a vase— at least, I hadn't. Our containers were crude versions of vases: old cans, fruit jars, buckets, and anything else that would hold water. When I had stripped the earth of its pretty flowers, I put them in whatever holders I found. I set them across the long porch that ran the length of our house. I can still see it now: a bright row of almost identical yellow blossoms. What a beautiful sight! A warm, delicious feast for my childish eyes. I thought that other people passing by might enjoy the beauty of my front porch nursery.

Once I was done stripping the ditches of those wild blossoms growing along the road, I visited the florist just up the road. Our neighbor, Mrs. Brown, appeared to compete with Mother Nature in growing her blossoms. She obviously loved flowers and no doubt planted every variety that would grow in Arkansas soil. The love of her life was her own nursery with rows and rows and rows of the prettiest petals you've ever seen. I would follow her as she trumped up and down the rows, dutifully clipping stem after stem and politely handing them to me. My little, beady eyes feasted on the labors of her love and the beauty that her hands had nurtured to fruition.

Bees buzzed around the honeysuckles that hung gracefully on the vines overlapping the walls near the old country school house. You could smell their fragrance a mile away. I just loved to tip-toe up to them (as though I thought they were going to suddenly disappear) and gently pull the stems from the center of their little, sweet-smelling bellies. There is a delicious collection of nectar that I sucked out of every honeysuckle flower that I could. I did that to keep the bees from getting to them first, but I'm sure they got their share of nectar, too, as the flowers bloomed and lingered for quite a spell.

When it comes to the fields and meadows, Southwestern Arkansas is mostly pine, and the only things they produce are needles and cones with a fragrance nowhere near that of a dainty rose. They are not as beautiful as a rose, either, but they will do. Pines are green all year, so during the spring there's not much new about them. Actually, there aren't many trees that have buds that blossom into full blooms like apple and cherry trees, which as a child, I never saw.

The nice aromas of this lovely season make the days so pleasant and enjoyable. Just to walk outside, stretch your arms, yawn loudly, inhale deeply, and smell the roses is a special treat for even the happiest soul. Spring just isn't spring if the breeze isn’t punctuated with those air-perfuming honeysuckles and brightly colored roses. What delicious fragrances they emit! When you're surrounded by so many blossoms, the outdoors smells like a big perfume garden.

Daffodil field
Photo by Adobe Stock/Samo Trebizan

The Easter Egg Hunt

Country at HeartI still have fond memories of our first and last Easter egg hunt. That year, my sisters and I boiled and dyed dozens and dozens and dozens of white, store-bought eggs. I say "white" because those brown, hen-hatched, country eggs don't dye easily.

But hold on for a minute. Before the kids go egg-hunting, let me tell you about some expressions that we used that may make the Easter egg hunt a bit more exciting. Then we'll go out to the pasture and watch the kids hunt their loot. We used these terms when someone was looking for something and we knew where it was — or we just wanted to be contrary while they frustrated themselves trying to find what they were looking for. They're your basic "hot and cold" hints.

If the seeker was a little off, we’d say, "You’re cool." If they were quite a bit off, we’d say, "You’re getting cold." If they were way out in the boondocks we’d say, "Boy, you’re freezing." Then, if they were somewhat in the territory of their target, we’d say, "You're getting warm," and the closer they got to the object, the more we'd say, "You’re getting warmer." If they were getting close to the target, we’d say, "You’re getting hot." And if they were right on the target and didn’t see it, We’d say, "Look out. You're on fire."

So after we tucked the eggs everywhere that an egg could be hidden, we eagerly watched to see if the little ones were on the path to finding them. If they started walking in the wrong direction, we’d say, "You’re cold ... cold ... cold ... You're freezing." Then, they would turn around and head in another direction. When they got real close to an egg, we'd say, "You’re getting hot." If they were about to step on an egg, we'd shout, "You're burning up!" That was their clue to look down and move something around. When they did, then, bingo — there was their treasure.

I had fun just watching them having fun while they romped and tromped on springtime's soft, green grass sprouting across the landscape. Then, after we counted the eggs and were satisfied that they had found them all, they gathered them into their little, homemade, brown-paper-sack Easter bags and we headed to the house to gobble them all up.

Doesn't it seem as though colored Easter eggs taste better than just plain old boiled breakfast eggs? It’s as though the pretty colors add some magical flavor to the taste, but that’s probably just my imagination running away with me. Back then, we didn't know anything about high cholesterol, and probably if we had known we would have eaten our beautiful, brightly-colored Easter eggs anyway ...

Dyed Easter eggs in grass

Photo by Adobe Stock/Leigh Prather