I went to high school in rural, middle Tennessee. A public school, centrally located, it was just one of two secondary schools in the whole of the county. In fact, it is not uncommon for folks from very small towns in the south to provide the name of their county as an answer instead of a city. Because you have probably never heard of it.
Ashland City, my hometown, is just 30 minutes northwest of Nashville, the state’s second most populous city (behind Memphis) and I’d say just 5% of people who ask where I am from know where it is. If they are older or are employing a spit cup, they are more apt to know. Ashland City is just a street light and a McDonald’s and a courthouse with kids in big trucks in front of it every Friday night. The school year’s biggest parties were held in fields around fire. Just down from the cows. And illegally. There was always the threat of getting caught, since everyone there was drunk and hollering, and parties often ended with teenagers scattering into the woods upon first sight of blue lights. I’ve heard tales of kids running full-tilt into a fence of barbed wire in the black of the night. I didn’t see it for myself. I hardly ever made it out for those things, as Bud Lite and bug bites weren’t my bag.
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