I Bought a Lawnmower: Country Roads, Take Me Home, To The Place I Belong

This is a bit more off the wall than the posts that I normally write. Or at least the beginning is going to be, so please bear with me for a moment.

I never remember my dreams anymore unless they are nightmares, so when I woke up in the middle of the night last night and could remember my dream that I had just had in its entirety, it was a pretty cool feeling. It was also a pretty amusing dream.

Basically, I was driving on the roads back home where I went to high school, up in the mountains of western North Carolina. I think at the beginning I was driving, and at the same time, I was trying to cook pasta. I'm not sure how this really fits in, but it was what was happening. So the next thing I know, my dad is driving, and I'm sitting in the passenger seat. I can't remember if I was still cooking pasta or not. Oh well. So as we come around a sharp corner, there is a truck that is stuck and can't get around the curve. My dad, the nice guy that he is, pulls over and tells the man directing the truck that a family friend of ours owns the land where the truck is stuck, and that if he gave him a call, he could help him out. The man looked at my dad, told him, very rudely, that he didn't need his or anyone else's help, and waved us on. As we were driving away, I mouthed the word "asshole" at the guy. My dad, being more of a quiet and reserved person in situations like that, got mad at me for responding the way that I did. My response, and the point of this story, was simple. "But dad, that's just not the SOUTHERN way of talking to people," referring to the man who was rude.

Now, let me make something perfectly clear. I can't really call myself Northern or Southern. My family history in terms of geography is a bit...muddy. Mom and her entire family are basically from up "Noth" in Massachusetts. Gram, my mom's mom, still has her Northern accent and probably will until the day she dies (which, considering the fact that she's 82 and still works 5 days a week, sings in the church choir, goes on cruises, and walks on her treadmill all the time, is not going to be any time soon). Dad on the other hand, was born in San Diego, California, moved to Key West, Florida, then to Jacksonville, Florida, and finally settled in Boca Raton, Florida. The life of a Navy brat at its best. Dad's mother hails from the land of peaches and magnolia trees, Rome, Georgia, while his father's family was raised in Connecticut. I was born in south Florida and raised in the mountains of North Carolina.

Long story short, my accent is a complete disaster. When I'm trying to slap on the charm, it's Southern. When I'm angry, it's as good as being born and bred in Boston. So why, suddenly, do I feel the need to identify myself with no conscious thought, as a Southerner? Don't get me wrong, I love the South and the people here. The men are sweet and the tea is sweeter. Everyone waves and says 'Hello.' When someone asks how you're doing, they actually want to know. And we have grits. What is a grit, anyway? (Whole other post, dude. Whole. Other. Post.)

I guess it's because, in the back of my mind, I know where I belong. The South. Capital S, o-u-t-h, South. I say y'all and I know what it means. I know who to go to if I ever find myself craving biscuits and gravy, true Southern grits (okay, so I eat them with heaps of sugar, leave me alone...), and straight from the woods venison...Google it.

My Southern Home:

Main Street. The trucks parked on the right? If you tell someone you'll meet them on Main Street, that's where you're parking. Right there. Or in front of Loafers Bench.