I live and work in a rural area. The views are awesome.
Lunch can be an adventure all its own.
When you order a side of “rounds” with your lunch, you probably get potatoes. But does your corner bistro serve fresh fried chicken with a side of hunting rounds? Mine does. The fried chicken is fantastic. And you’re always “Honey” or “Baby” or “Darlin,” never “Sir” or “Bub” or nothing at all.
“Will that be 30-30, 30-06, 243 or 380 Auto? To go?”
For four dollars and change, I get two pieces of chicken, two sides, and a roll. Sorry, no insults from the surly the waiter. You have to drive to town for that.
There’s not a table in the corner by the window with linens and free wifi, but the woodstove is mighty nice if you snag a chair on that side of the room. When it’s cold, the old guys have the best seats staked out all day.
Favored chairs have long lives, and get worn smooth as glass. Esthetics invert the life cycle in the city: Here, the more worn they get, the longer they stay.
And don’t forget your tarp, 10W-40, hitch pin or dog chow. The nearest grocery or hardware is 25 miles away.