Catch a Wave in Hunt Country

February 15, 2001

You know you belong in hunt country when you are stuck behind a horse trailer doing 15 mph on a winding back road and you don't mind.

My children don't understand why I like living in a rural environment.

I don't have horses. I don't raise cattle. I can't even keep the blight off my tomatoes.

So why do I want to live where cows outnumber cabbies?

From my children's standpoint, the idea of living far from the nearest dance club, to say nothing of the nearest mall, seems insane. All of my children were born and raised in the country. And they have all conspired to escape to the big city as soon as they were able.

I've given up trying to explain to them my taste for open skies and quiet spaces. I accept that my children do not now, and maybe never will, share the pleasure I take in the sound of birds, the shifting of shadows across a meadow, the smell of newly turned earth. Maybe someday, after they have had enough of the smell of exhaust and the clamor of sirens and crowds, they will give the country a second glance. Maybe not.

I understand the allure of the city, especially for the younger set. I enjoy nights at the theatre, days at the art galleries, lunches in the fashionable cafes. But even when I lived in the city, I always viewed it as a temporary arrangement, a place to get enough momentum going so that I could make the jump outside the beltway to where the grass literally is greener.

And when my husband and I first moved to a house near the Rappahannock River more than 30 years ago, I was so dazzled by the scenery that it took me a while to appreciate one of the more subtle charms of living in rural Virginia.

Years of driving in the metropolitan area had given me a hardened veneer of self-preservation. In the city, motorists don't usually make eye contact with each other unless they want to start something. The only hand signals you see tend to be disrespectful, if not obscene.

Then we moved to the country and discovered a change in road etiquette as marked as the change in scenery.

The first time a stranger waved at me as I passed him in his truck I was so surprised I thought it must have been a mistake. Maybe he thought I was someone else. Then it happened again. And again.

I began to feel funny about not waving back. It just seemed like the right thing to do. So, after a while, whenever I would drive by someone in a truck or a car, if they waved, I waved back.

Eventually, I began to wave at other drivers myself. Not everyone, of course, and not all the time. But there's a certain type of road in Fauquier which befits the rural wave. These roads demand a slower pace than the major highways which slice through the county. And the traffic on these roads is almost entirely locals - farmers in pickups, trucks pulling horse trailers, parents driving kids.

The rural wave, it should be noted, is not the sort of upper-case bold font attention-grabbing wave used to hail taxis or worship rock stars. No indeed. The wave which passes between two souls on an isolated rural byway is a subtle, understated movement, a kind of wave haiku.

The actual wave varies from driver to driver, but in essence, the rural wave can be and often is accomplished without taking a hand off the wheel. The driver may lift four fingers, uncurling his or her fingers from the steering wheel in a small salute. Or he might lift his entire hand in a brief gesture of goodwill. Sometimes a smile accompanies the wave. Just as often not. A smile isn't needed.

To me these waves from civil strangers speak volumes about the difference between life in the country and life in the city.

Maybe city people used to wave at each other, or at least acknowledge each other's existence in more friendly ways back when there was less fear of random violence. Or maybe that's just the illusion of nostalgia. Perhaps cities have always suffered from more violence simply because there are so many more people per square foot. A certain amount of chafing and irritation seems inevitable.

In contrast, the country allows even its humblest residents the dignity of personal space.

The value of rural open space and the importance of preserving farmland cannot be overstated. But just as important is the preservation of the faith, hope and charity we share with our fellow travelers on the road of life.

Even when they are driving a horse trailer.