Five years ago, I moved back home to the country. I had been away since I was a teenager and although I loved the fresh air and undisturbed scenic views, I had pretty much adopted an urban mentality. But as time passed, something unexpected happened. I developed a sort of local pride-a bit of esteem for understanding the difference between a backhoe and a dozer, what kind of birds migrate here in the Winter and how to feed a mule a balanced diet. Country people are not ignorant or uneducated. One of their most unique qualities is their unwavering determination to survive. Many of my neighbors could read Shakespeare if they so desired but would rather study the reproductive cycles of their garden plants because that is what puts food on the table. These are a people who can write poetry and formulate equations, but only when necessary to complete a task. They are strong willed, bodies worn from overwork but eyes wise. They have watched the butterfly emerge from its cocoon, laid down a rifle so that a young doe can live to reproduce and with tears held back, they have turned their gun to their old dying horse. They know how to fix anything and everything-old cars, washing machines, dripping sinks and broken families. They turn to God when things get bad and when things are good, they humble themselves in prayer. They pray before breakfast, dinner, supper and yes, they still call it supper. They know how to fix a hearty meal and have recipes passed down from their great grandparents that no restaurant can compare to. They know how to skin a chicken and cook it in a pot, how to dress a deer, how to tie a fishing line, and how to eat a crawdad. They can tell you where to find the blackberries and paw paws, poke and morels, where the wild sassafras and ginseng and mint grow. They know how to crochet a mitten and quilt a blanket and how to measure and sew and spin. They can whittle a cross from an old piece of cedar and make a table from a pile of logs. They are the craftsman, the artisan, the herbalist, the gardener, the doctor, the mechanic, the plumber and the cook. The True Renaissance Man. They are the one you want to know when the Apocalypse, the Earthquake hits, or just a winter storm, where they will always have a wood fire burning. These are a people who could retire in the city with a green lawn and a grocery store down the block, but they would rather die poor and alone under the stars on their own land. Oh, I am becoming one of them. I want to be 85 and gray and understand how to predict the weather from a persimmon seed. And if there are no trees left by then and the steel aluminum world has paved its way to my front door, I want to let the weeds around my house grow tall in protest until the vines crack the asphalt, taking back what once was.