My Hubby: The City Slicker Turned Countryman

My Hubby: The City Slicker Turned Countryman

My Hubby is a brute of a man. Built like a football player and intimidating to say the least with his wide shoulders, tattooed arm and a beard that could rival Duck Dynasty’s, if I only I would let him grow it longer. As mentioned before, he was raised in the suburbs and had pretty minimal exposure to actual country life. Sure he went camping, survived road trips and has gone rock climbing, but unlike me he’s never had a cow run loose in his backyard, or had to run to gather clothes on the clothesline before a big storm moves in, oh and don’t forget about fishing dead squirrels out of the garden rain barrel, pretty sure he’s never had to deal with that!

He’s come a long way, even he admits this, from his city loving soul, bar hopping ways, and love of condos and shiny low riding cars. He now owns a toque with a pompom (I need to find him a furry hat with ear flaps to make the transition complete), he owns a lot of plaid, can swing an axe like a true backwoodsman and has cooked whole pork shoulders under the coals of a bonfire. After dragging him each year to a remote camp in the backwoods that I’ve been visiting since I was a kid, he’s now comfortable baiting hooks, swimming in lake water, cooking on a wood stove and living without every single piece of technology (okay, the technology part might be a fight still, but again… he’s making progress).

There’s still a little bit of city boy in him which makes me smile. As the weather turns colder, the windows of the house have a coating of frost on the inside. It is DANG cold right now, but he laments that windows shouldn’t freeze like that (I remember stretching clear plastic over my childhood home windows in the fall to help keep the cold out). I have the thermostat set at a defiantly low temperature to keep costs down, and where he would normally would walk around in his underwear he now stays fully clothed, grumbling about how cold the place is and shivering as he gets into bed, pulling the dogs in close (not his wife) to keep him warm. The thought of animals in the walls either creeps him out or scares him, I’m not quite sure yet, so we’ve agreed that I won’t tell him when I hear mr. mouse skittering about in the attic. Well-sourced water, I even admit, takes some getting used to and he drinks it when he has to, but not without a comment or two on the taste. His normally 40 minute long showers with steaming hot water now last only 10 minutes and he emerges sad that his precious water pressure is “just not like in the city”.

But country looks good on him, and I like that he’s still a little city. It will probably be a few years before he buys himself some rubber boots, suspenders and volunteers for haying season and I won’t expect him to fish any dead squirrels out of rain barrels quite yet, but it will happen eventually. Oh it will happen.

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