hurt dirt don’t
writer Caroline Huftalen illustrator Barry Lee
the small, obscure sign read “BEWARE BABY RATTLES” over a wooden crate that was casually covered in wire mesh. I knew that laws were different in the South and there seemed to be a lot more leeway when it came to certain things like guns and what people considered food, but I was certain that rattlesnakes could not be considered retail items or pets. I had just walked through the barbed wired entrance to a produce stand located in Rockdale County, a suburb outside of Atlanta. This area felt like the old South, with single lane roads flanked by red clay, fields and barbecue shacks. I noticed a Confederate flag. It was as if the Yankees had never invaded and restructured the South’s customs and beliefs. I’d been disappointed with the lack of local produce in grocery stores, so I was on a mission to find a farmer who only sold what was grown in the stiff, red Georgia dirt. If I was going to live in the South, I wanted the full experience, and that meant tasting it. I had found this stand after a long drive. I almost passed it by thinking it was a junkyard
due to the barbed wire security system. On closer glance, I realized it was exactly what I was craving. The stand looked like it was made from a trash heap. Pieces of old wood and metal were slapped together forming a ramshackle general store. Large metal cages sat beneath a covered patio. Inside these cages were rabbits that had obviously reproduced very quickly. “That’s odd. Why would you sell pet bunnies at a place where you buy food?” I asked my mom who was my shopping companion, and what I consider to be our family’s resident hillbilly since she was born and raised in Tennessee. She knew the answer, but hesitated in telling an animal-lover the truth. She said simply, “They aren’t for petting.”
I tore my eyes away from the poor, but plump fuzzy rabbits that would end up in someone’s pot of stew and moved on to the supposed rattlesnake spawn. The cages didn’t seem secure, but there was no way to avoid walking by them — they shielded the only entrance into the open-air store. After a few moments of wondering if one had already gotten out and if rattlesnakes could jump, I stirred up enough nerve to peek over the crate’s edge. I realized that this produce stand was not run by a farmer, but a comedian. The sign was a clever play on words to undoubtedly catch fools, like myself, off guard. The crate held exactly what it said it did, baby rattles. Not
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