Woman in Her (?) Nation, of cars, cigarettes, and cellulite

About 15 miles from my own home, there is the border to a different land. A land of car racing, monster trucks, fatty foods, clay dirt, obesity, and "freedom."

Welcome to my evening at Lernerville Speedway. Accompanying are the L's, our family friends from the city (censored name for their privacy). After having a "box" (or just a roof with some metal chairs) at Lernerville for years and never having actually visited, we decided to go with the Lesoons for some country car romping. We have a car (who we only supply tires to), a driver, a sign with our name on it--none of what I knew we ever even had. My dad prefers movies and the Steelers, to cars and dirt.

As we look for our seats, mom is concerned her espadrilles are getting dirty and she clearly is overdressed. I'm getting glaring looks as I walked up the old wooden bleachers to our box seat. Is my purple dress too purple? Older men with their buttoned shirts have sleeves rolled up to look like old time greasers. I see boys with little hair tails and girls who are 12 smoking cigarettes. An incredibly obese woman in nude colored cotton pants blocks the stairway to my "box" filled with metal chairs.

As Mrs. L is an audiologist, she has us outfitted with proper earwear. Having a conversation is futile when you can't hear and don't know sign language. How is that cute little 17 year old on a date here with his girl? They can't talk!

In between races, we actually bring up conversations: Courtney L. with a boy who is the son of our driver. He knows how to replace transmission and he is like 9. Mom has a man offer her some sausage. Mrs. L chats up with the boy in front of us (the son of the guy who does our towing). He is very polite, telling us in his country pittsburgh accent about how last week a guy caught on fire! He says, "Yea!" after every question mom asks.

Courtney and I leave and pass up the beer hut next to the port-a-potties and dodge cans that fall from the bleachers above us (people throw them under their seats). Little kids have big ear protection on as they watch the big kids (9-10 year olds) play football. A man sticks a wad of chew-tobaccky in his mouth. I'm stared at as if I was a dead woman walking, from a time in the distant future who has died and come back. Is it the ugg sandals (like Birkenstocks of yuppies) or my curly hair (which every other girl straightens and dyes blonde in these parts...)

Later, Courtney and I sit on the roof of her Jeep and look out at the clay dirt in the night sky that has been kicked up by the homemade cars that are going in circles.

Sometimes I forget where I live. Sometimes we all forget what our country is composed of. Regardless, we all need to remember that somewhere in farm town USA, on any given friday in June, there are car races that are keeping these communities from boredom and keeping America a family affair.