Chaos Descending

Redneck Rules

As day prepared to surrender to night the sky turned from shades of pink and blue into a blazing orange, setting fire to the clouds on the horizon. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with a rush of late autumn air. I'd almost forgotten how wonderful the cool and steady breeze smelled out here in the country. Like wild grass, pine trees, and sunflowers.

The scent of my childhood.

Weaving in and around the many guests mingling about, Thomas and I didn't say much to each other as we walked. We didn't have to. Even in the quiet moments we shared, somehow the silence seemed to connect us in a way that words never could. And when he reached out to hold my hand, the feel of his fingers entwining with mine gave me goosebumps on top of my goosebumps.

As we made our way past the row of greenhouses beyond the barn, the pungent smell of barbecue wafted over me. I wasn't really all that surprised to find Chief Madden standing watch over an iron casket and pit-barbecuing a whole hog.  What I was surprised to find, however, was the exterminator guy cooking twenty-two hotdogs at once on the end of a clean rake held over an open fire.

At least, I hoped it was clean.

On second thought, never mind. With my upbringing, these shenanigans weren't all that surprising. My mom had been throwing parties like this ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Except that I was never actually allowed to attend any of her annual get-togethers where partygoers kicked the pig on an adults-only, three-day camping revelry that celebrated all things red of neck. Sure, it started out as a modest gathering of laid back agricultural type folks. But with all the drinking and general debauchery one would expect, we competed with cities much, much bigger than Hastings.

That's how we earned the nickname, Wastings.

Which basically just meant that at the heart of any party good enough to be called a "White Trash Bash," was a commitment to assertively...uh, make that aggressively give a grand total of absolutely zero fucks.

I should know because I'd successfully snuck in a time or two. It was basically comprised of a massive crowd of scantily clad people (some who should be, and some who shouldn't) that partied out in a field surround by a circle of pickup trucks, a huge ass bonfire, and way too much alcohol. Every last one of the partygoers was give-a-damn challenged by the end of the freaking weekend. After all, it's where brain cells and social norms routinely went to die.

And I hated how much I loved it.

This year my mom had gone all out to make sure our Thanksgiving was special. This here was meant to be one of her more fancier shin-digs, so she'd taken extra time to create buffet style tables by stacking up plastic milk crates and placing sheets of plywood on top, alternating with red and white checkered tablecloths on some, and camouflage on others. Over in a corner, an old rusty dryer served as a drink cooler. Stuffed with ice cubes and loads of cans of pop it made for a colorful display.  

Despite the late autumn chill in the air, cold dishes like macaroni, potato, and possum salads were all kept extra, extra cold by placing the serving dishes in multiple rectangular blow up swimming pools, each filled to the brim with chucks of ice.

And, finally, for the dessert buffet my mom had lined up row after row of her award winning apple and pumpkin pies. Also available were a bevy of sweet treats like Twinkies, Ding Dongs, and Ho Ho's. You know, in case guests preferred their cake wrapped in plastic.

"I'm starving," Thomas finally admitted, skeptically eyeballing the food with a serious frown firmly planted on his face. Thanks to me, he wasn't a fan of trying new things. I had to steer him over to a table stuffed with appetizers that he would recognize. When he picked up a stack of crackers and a can of squeeze cheese, I knew I had him. My mom had used it as a topping for everything from Tater Tot casserole to Beanie Weenies.