“When we get piled upon one another in large cities, as in Europe, we shall become as corrupt as Europe.” ~ Thomas Jefferson

In every large city, whether rich or poor, there is always the faint aroma of feces.  It’s always there.  Sometimes your brain and your olfactory lobe work together so you smell it, and sometimes, they don’t.  Think about that.

City smells smell “hot,” even when it it not hot.  The reason is simple enough.  Warm sewer gases waft upwards from beneath the dirty sidewalks and streets, upward to the up-turned nostrils, sending messages to brains that cannot discern whether they are smelling feces, cigarette smoke, automobile exhaust, brake dust, some foreign food cooking, some foreign perfume, or some foreign armpits.  The smell of mustard gas tickles noses that are attached to faces of people with blank stares, shuffling here and there, like they are somehow more important than the guy with the blank stare shuffling next to him.  I am not unaware, I am not too far removed from this phenomenon.

Those faces are attached to the heads of people adorned with silly glasses, silly hats, silly earrings, something, anything to differentiate themselves from everyone – everyone, that is, but the “friends” they shuffle to meet who dress and adorn themselves just like them.  Whether its ironic fedoras, ironic neon shoes, ironic neon glasses, skinny or baggy jeans, skinny or baggy shirts, skinny or baggy suits, or just a plain ol’ hijab, these city-dwellers must be different than you, but must identify with their “friends.”  It’s how they belong, mind you.

Mothers push baby strollers through the muck and the mong on the streets, indiscernible, really, from the feces they smell from below the streets.  All the while, these smells attack the up-turned noses, daring the brains to think what the sources of the smells might be.  And on and on the people march, going nowhere in particular as fast as they can.  Somewhere along they way they will eat some foreign-smelling foods, turn that food into feces, pour it out into an old rusty pipe, to go on and be sniffed and contingently ignored by other city-dwellers.

The power to ignore the smell of feces is what makes people civilized.  When a person can no longer stand the smell of feces and they move out of the city, their friends mourn their decision to leave.  That’s because they have made the decision to lose their civility.  ”Aw,” their friends will say.  ”Too bad,” and, “That’s a shame.”  It takes a lot of civility to pay two-to-ten times more for living quarters that are two-to-ten times filthier than those outside the soulless city.

Civility continues without them, though.  Civility shuffles along with its blank stare, ignoring the surrounding feces and its own putrid, mustard gas smell.

When I was a youth I remember visiting my grandparents near Wiergate, Texas, positioned East of the Sam Rayburn Dam and Southwest the Toledo Bend Reservoir.  Some of you know exactly where this is, but most people have no idea what any of that means at all.  Suffice it to say, the setting is purposefully rural and removed from any uncivilized “civilization.”

It was here I got to experience some of the things unavailable “in town.”  As a family, we would venture here to so the brothers could do such things as explore the woods, drive go-karts, shoot skeet, and eat wonderful food that seemed to never end.  It was here that I learned to push outside my comfort zone.  It was here that I actively learned.

As a juvenile (delinquent), during the summers, I learned to help my grandfather in his shop and around the yard, with tasks quickly consuming a full day’s work.  As a married adult, I learned to sit with my grandparents over endless cups of coffee to simply talk, ask questions, and wonder at worlds gone by; consider that my grandfather had his first car at age nine, and two by age thirteen… in Downtown Houston.  Sometimes we would all sit up talking until the wee hours of the morning.  My wife has proven to be the granddaughter my grandparents never had; now it seems they want to talk to her on the phone more than to me.  It’s hard to explain, but for me, this is pure bliss.

I learned many incredible things as a youth at my grandparents.  One was a life lesson wrapped in a bit of Appalachian folklore regarding “Good News Bees.”  If you have any relation to the South, you’ve probably heard this story before.  I remember learning this from my grandmother, whom we all call Mamaw.

It must have been Spring Break, as all the flowering bushes were in full bloom, but in Wiergate, Spring feels like Summer.  Near the bushes, what I thought was a bee swarmed in front of my face.  I retracted, fearing the sting.  Walking behind me, Mamaw said, “Those are Good News Bees!  They won’t hurt you.”  I asked what that meant, and she said, “Good News Bees don’t sting; they just come close to look at you and tell you the ‘Good News.’”  Mamaw is strong, and I knew she didn’t want me to be afraid, but I also knew she wouldn’t lead me astray, so I fully trusted her and let go of my fear.

Turns out, this particular “Bee” is a “Yellowjacket Hover Fly,” which does not sting.  In all actuality, the “Bee” hovers in front of you trying to determine whether your face is a flower, as it is a nectar feeder.  Nevertheless, I learned not to panic, or even try to swat the “Bee,” because it would not hurt me.  Instead, I learned to stop and watch it in its habitat.

For a young boy, this was empowering.  Since Mamaw taught me of the Good News Bee, as an adult, I really don’t fear bees at all.  This is a trait that has haphazardly been passed onto my own son, who loves to watch bees swarm in our yard; bees are the first thing he looks for out the window in the morning.  I find great joy walking outside with my two-year old, without fear, to look at bees swarming the flowers.

I hope that, inherently, my Mamaw’s strength has been passed down to us all.  I also hope now we can all return the favor.  We have recently gotten some Bad News regarding her health, and I hope the story of the Good News Bees can remind us that, in the face of danger, not to panic; instead, we must trust in the Lord, the bearer of Good News, that after this is over, nothing can hurt us anymore.

“But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people.’” ~ Luke 2:10

This dilapidated homestead by the side of the bypass

Was built stronger than most, but nothing ever lasts.

The state offered to buy the whole place in a pretty good deal,

And he eventually sold some land to pay for college bills.

The kids moved out about the time they put the onramp in,

But they make the trip back from the coast when they can.

The neighbor’s son sold their place when the roads came running in,

Back in ’85 – things were different then;

Hardly recognize this land we all grew up in.

Now the neighbor’s old barn next to the property line is a drive-thru liquor store where the cowboys stop to chew, smoke, drink, compare the mud streaked up the sides of their trucks, and talk about the next mudhole they’ll terrorize.  At night those boys tell secrets about each other’s sisters until one throws a punch.  A bloody fistfight goes on until this one constable shows up out of nowhere to take the same two back boys to the tank for the third time this year.  They’ll see each other next week working at what’s left of the local dealership and act like nothing ever happened.  Life goes on, and sure, some things change, but some things never will.

This land ain’t what it used to be.  This sleazy aluminum strip mall gets made over with paint, another neon sign pops up in the former pizza place, which now serves Chinese food to the Mexican men on their lunch break from building the new strip mall down the road in the neighboring town.  The truckstop illuminates this part of town with light and the smell of diesel fumes.  People here talk about football, the weather, and nothing else in particular.  The kids in this town move out the first chance they get; that is, if they get the chance to get.

Back at the homestead, our hero stands on his porch and watches the sun set between those two trees like he does everyday.  If you look real close, right before sundown everything looks the same as it did back then: spotless, calm, immaculate.  If you cover your ears to drown out the 18-wheelers screaming down the highway between you and the setting sun, you can feel that peaceful feeling again; it’s the reason his grandfather built here a century ago.

He stands there until he gets the goosebumps that cool him down in the muggy heat.  When the sun slips out of sight, he’ll go back to his chair, turn on the TV until he gets tired and then he’ll get ready for bed, and wait for one of his kids to call.  They feel the stark difference between their world and his.  Although he sees the changes around him, to the outsiders, nothing here ever changes.  It feels like they’re moving through the years, outracing the clock, while the old homestead stands still.

Though some will never understand it, that’s precisely why people love the old hometowns.  That’s what draws folks back, away from the cities and the unending Progress of Man.  It’s the feeling of moving backwards in time that comforts the souls of humans that have souls.  This land ain’t what it used to be, but it is what it is on purpose, and for a purpose.  Some of these places – the hills, hollows, woods, groves, swamps, and streams – will never change.  Drink it up and come back for more; this land waits for you.