BUCKING THE SYSTEM: A ROAD OVER FROM NUTBUSH, A VISIT WITH HIS PAST

Last weekend we took a family trip that was a real eye-opener for me.

Patrick decided he wanted to rekindle his relationship with his father, so we packed up the car and drove down to Ripley, Tenn., for the day.

For those of you who don't know Ripley, it's just a road or two over from Nutbush. That's right, for all you "What's Love Got to Do With It" fans, I'm talking about the hometown of Tina Turner.

Ripley and Nutbush are everything they were made out to be in the movie. It's a very rural farm town where the best landmarks are still cotton gins and some folks who live largely off the land.

It's a place where they make their own rag bologna and corn liquor, and there are very few name-brand anythings around.

And so it was on Ole George Buck's farm. Now, I considered myself a country girl prior to this trip, what with my being from the greater-Charleston area and all. However, I now know that I may be country in spirit, but my attitude has definitely shifted more towards city life.

I believe in meat that doesn't taste as fresh as it actually is, and I like shiny, sparkly bathrooms with lots of chrome and mirrors and toilets. Farm animals are fun to sing about, but smelling them and cleaning up after them, well that's another thing altogether.

I thought my attitude was the same as my husband's and children's, but apparently I was alone in being uncomfortable on a REAL farm. Patrick returned to his childhood days, when throwing dirt clods and riding willy-nilly down a country lane was fun, and he took his children with him on his journey.

Here I was trying not to get dirty or step in something that shouldn't be stepped in, and there went my husband and my kids, herding goats, slopping hogs and chasing chickens.

Even the farm dogs didn't bother Jerry, who is deathly afraid of dogs. His PawPaw George kept the dogs away and taught him how to catch and hold a chicken, an accomplishment he's still talking about a week later. And he didn't tell me one time that he needed to wash his hands.

And PJ? Well, Mr. I-Know-No-Fear had to be snatched up to keep him from putting a live chicken's head into his mouth. Why he thought that was a good idea I'll never know.

I found myself relegated to the role of historian for the trip. I snapped picture after picture of my three men and the elder Mr. Buck as they made their way around the farm. The more time they spent together, the more comfortable they became.

Even though Patrick's dad called the kids "boy" instead of using their names throughout the day, it seemed as if there were some real bonds formed during that visit. I know he enjoyed it, because he told us he has a new colt he wants the boys to learn how to ride.

That means we'll be planning other trips to the country in the future.

It's a sad fact that as the world is becoming more global, family members are moving further apart. The result is that kids don't know their histories and their relatives like they should. As my dad kept telling me last week, "You don't know anything about the country because you didn't live with that."

Maybe I didn't grow up with outhouses and smokehouses, chickens and hogs. I'm quite sure I don't want those blasts from the pasts to become permanent parts of my future.

But every once in a while, I don't think it'll hurt to visit.

Tamara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.