Half an Acre

I am holding half an acre
Torn from the map of Michigan
And folded in this scrap of paper
Is a land I grew in

Think of every town you've lived in
Every room, you lay your head
And what is it that you remember?

Do you carry every sadness with you
Every hour your heart was broken
Every night the fear and darkness
Lay down with you

A man is walking on the highway
A woman stares out at the sea
And light is only now just breaking

So we carry every sadness with us
Every hour our heart were broken
Every night the fear and darkness
Lay down with us

But I am holding half an acre
Torn from the map of Michigan
I am carrying this scrap of paper

That can crack the darkest sky wide open
Every burden taken from me
Every night my heart unfolding
My home

I first heard the song Half an Acre on a Liberty Mutual ad several years ago, and found it on iTunes and purchased it. It’s a haunting song, and still one of my favorites to listen to when the mood strikes.

I have an inconvenient kind of mind, however. I can’t listen to words like “I am holding half an acre, torn from a map of Michigan” without thinking, “That must be one big-assed map.” I used to live in a house on a half acre lot. It seemed large enough when I was mowing the grass, even with a riding mower, but I if I look at a state map of Louisiana and try to pinpoint where that half-acre is, well, pinpoint is the operative term.

So today for some reason I decided to figure out just how big-assed a map we are talking about. Google and I had a little sit down and I discovered that one half acre is 21, 780 square feet. Michigan covers an area of 96, 716 square miles. In case you are wondering, one square mile is the equivalent of 27, 878, 400 square feet. So half an acre is very roughly one one-thousandth of a square mile, and Michigan is roughly 96,000 square miles. If met calculations are correct, half an acre is roughly one 96-millionth the size of Michigan.

A pinpoint is looking a little large.

And speaking of points, of course, the feasibility of holding a half-acre scrap torn from a map of Michigan is not the point of the song. I get that. The song is about fear, regret and disappointment, and how each of us needs a home place we can go to, even if only in our minds, when those threaten to overwhelm us. The scrap of paper is a metaphor for the half-acre more or less that we carry in our minds.

The mind that in my case, can’t help asking, “But just how big is that scrap of paper?” Because asking such questions and tinkering and figuring out, that’s my home.

Read more: Hem - Half Acre Lyrics | MetroLyrics or listen here.

Homeboy

Homeboy, you’re gonna wish one day,  That you were sittin’ on a gate of a truck by the lake With your high school flame on one side, ice cold beer on the other Ain’t no shame in a blue collar forty, little house, little kid, little small town story If you don’t ever do anything else for me, just do this for me brother, Come on home, boy. That's the chorus to Eric Church's country hit, Homeboy. Homeboy is like the story of the Prodigal Son, only in this version, the Prodigal doesn't come home and the elder brother actually wishes he would, and would be perfectly happy not only to kill the fatted calf for him but pop open a few beers as well. I like the song, and I probably would have just let the problematical lyrics slide over me while enjoying the melody, Church's voice, and the play on words in the first and last lines of the chorus, if it weren't that I have internet friends in this same situation. They've left home and the life that was all planned for them by well-meaning family, and their families aren't taking it well. "Come home", they say, and home is not just a place, but a mindset. "Just do this for me, stop being who you are and be the person I imagined you would be. Otherwise, you'll be sorry." The song is sung in the first person, but the "I" and "me" of the song isn't the writer, Casey Beatherd. Mr. Beatherd is the son of an NFL general manager and now lives in Nashville and writes songs, so he hasn't been baling hay out in the back forty. It isn't Eric Church, either.  Eric Church has been singing professionally since his senior year in high school, and according to Wikipedia broke up with his first fiancee when her father wanted him to give up singing for a corporate career. Church eventually married someone else, apparently not his high school flame. So our narrator is a fictional character, which is perfectly fine with me, but I'm trying to figure out what to call him. Let's go with Elder Brother. Elder Brother's love for Homeboy comes through in the song. He truly believes that sittin’ on a gate of a truck by the lake with your high school flame on one side, ice cold beer on the other is what will make Homeboy happy. Those of us looking at the situation from the outside know that if Homeboy were able to be happy with the truck, the lake, and his high school flame, he wouldn't have left that life, but this is what makes Elder Brother happy, so it should make everybody happy. Well, everybody except maybe the songwriter and singer who created Elder Brother, but I do know a lot of people who live this life and they are happy. I could use a little help unloading these bales I could keep you pretty busy with a hammer and nails Ain’t a glamorous life but it will keep you outta jail, Not worry us all to death The song only makes sense if Homeboy isn't actually in jail. You can't tell someone who's doing 10-15 in prison to just "come on home boy", unless it's part of a deal you're making with him before you testify at his parole hearing. So while Homeboy's urban lifestyle worries the folks back home, we don't know from the song lyrics that he is doing anything illegal. He could be working at a tattoo parlor. Heck, he could own the tattoo parlor. Elder Brother disapproves of Homeboy's tattoo on his neck, but as I said, I live near a rural area, I know people like Elder Brother, and they have tattoos on their necks, too. Our nearby rural areas are also famous for meth labs. It's not like Homeboy couldn't find plenty of trouble for himself if he came on home, if trouble is what he wants, rather than simply space to live his own life and dream his own dreams.  I don't know if you could write a song that goes, "Is there some way you could live your life, and I could live mine, and mama and daddy could live theirs, but we could still be a family? Could you come on home for a visit, boy?"  We don't hear Homeboy's thoughts on the subjects, but I've read the thoughts of several homeboys and girls on the internet and I know they aren't asking that question from their side, either, despite all my gentle prodding. I've decided there's no point in trying to give advice to people who've never seen my face. If Elder Brother were to ask my advice, though, I'd tell him that a place that welcomes you for who you are, not for who they intended you to be, is what I'd call home, boy.

Target Practice

It occurs to me that when I post about my husband, I may seem unduly critical. I don't mean to sound critical. Florence King once responded to criticisms of her book Southern Ladies and Gentlemen by saying that she does not stereotype people, she just "points them up", the way Betty MacDonald "pointed up" country people in her book, The Egg and I. I like to think I just "point up" my husband.

Still, it is more than time I pointed up his many virtues, instead of his endearing faults. What started me thinking about his many virtues most recently is the Bruno Mars song, Grenade:

I’d catch a grenade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Throw my hand on a blade for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
I’d jump in front of a train for ya (yeah, yeah , yeah)
You know I'd do anything for ya (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Oh, oh
I would go through all this pain,
Take a bullet straight through my brain,
Yes, I would die for ya baby;
But you won't do the same

The first time I heard this song, I wondered how often Mr. Mars was likely to be called upon to catch a grenade for his girlfriend, as opposed to say, picking up his dirty socks, or maybe even running a load of laundry. Sure it sounds romantic to promise to catch a grenade for your lady fair, but that's not the kind of promise that can be easily tested. If he had said, "Honey, I love you so much that I'd even carry your purse for you while you try on clothes at the mall", she could reply with something like, "Does Saturday work for you? Because I need a new dress for your class reunion next month." That'll weed out the talkers from the doers. But what do you say to someone who promises to catch a grenade for you? "Let's go see if they have any at the Army Surplus Store"? No, the extravagant promises of the type Mr. Mars makes are the sort that sound impressive (if you're 18) but are useless in every day life.  

Mr. Mars' other complaint about his girlfriend, besides her unwillingness to make suicidal gestures on his behalf, is that:

Should've known you was trouble from the first kiss

Had your eyes wide open, why were they open? 

This is just a guess, but maybe she was checking for incoming ordinance.

My husband, on the other hand, is not given to making extravagant promises. This is what he does. When we first met, I had a job making home health visits, and a car in its death throes. I had known him for about a week when I mentioned I needed to rent a car to make a home health visit because mine was in the shop. He immediately loaned me his. We spent the rest of the weekend coordinating schedules so we could get the health visit, his grocery shopping, and my grocery shopping done, not to mention getting lunch and going to a party together that night. By the end of the weekend, we were like an old married couple. 

Then he repaired the broken clock on my oven, and exterminated a carpenter beetle that was making a hole in my front porch.

He didn't stop doing helpful things once we were married, either. Twice he made the twenty mile round trip to bring me my extra car key after I locked myself out of my car. Then he bought me a magnetic key holder for the extra key.

And since I broke my foot, he has done all the cooking, cleaning, laundry, chauffeuring, and pet care. I never doubted for a minute he would.

For that matter, I don't doubt that if it came right down to it, he'd catch a grenade for me.

He just won't sing about it. 

You're Going to Miss This

The azaleas and bench in the backyard

You're Gonna Miss This is a Trace Adkins song which I like, but the premise of which amuses me. The chorus goes:

You're gonna miss this. You're gonna want this back.

You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast.

These are some good times, so take a good look around.

You may not know it now, but you're gonna miss this.

On the surface, that sounds like very good advice, but when I think about it, people in the song are trying to convince a young woman not to keep wishing for the future by telling her that one day she's going to look back and long for the past (and implying that they themselves do). Apparently the whole idea of living in the present has eluded everyone in the song.

I know there are things I am going to miss when I finally sell the house and move away. We can't bring the huge magnolia tree in the backyard with us. We won't even bring the concrete benches, because they are heavy and likely to break. The wisteria-covered pergola will have to stay. I'm not sure a magnolia will grow in our new location, but of course we can build a new pergola, plant a climbing vine and ornamental tree, and buy more benches.

I'm just not sure I want to. I'll miss the things I left behind, for a while at least, but I don't want the future to be an attempt to recreate the past, no matter how happy. I want to enjoy my memories, but not miss them, because I want to be busy building whatever kind of present seems appropriate in a new place. I might want a curved concrete bench, or I might remember that I never really sat on it much, and opt for something else instead. I might want a sunny spot for herbs instead of a tree and a shady pergola, or I might want a porch with a real roof that can hold a fan.

Since no one seems to be in a rush to buy the house, I'll enjoy it while I have it. And then I'll leave it behind, in the past where it will someday belong. It will be happy there.