| DGouldthorp | member since May 2009 |
 | September 14, 2009, 8:27 am Senior Moments With Gouldthorp (Sept) Having lived and worked in some of the world’s largest cities, I’m finding retirement south of the Mason-Dixon Line to be – what’s the word? – um, different. Let me say right up front that what follows here is my own slightly lopsided view of life “down here” as seen by someone who “ain’t from these parts” and is not meant to offend any of my friends or neighbors who staunchly defend their second amendment rights. Life is good here, even if the question posed most frequently to this poor old Englishman is, “You talk funny; you a Yankee?” So with all due love and respect for my adopted State and its fine folk, I feel it’s only appropriate to make a few observations for those of you who haven’t experienced the ambiance of the South, such as the pleasure of sitting on a porch swing listening to a little bluegrass wafting on the gentle evening breeze, and watching the sun set over the Smokies; all the while enjoying a real Southern alfresco dining delight – an RC Cola and a Moon Pie. This part of the country is where men are men and a woman takes pride in cooking with only four things; salt, pepper, Tabasco and ketchup. It’s where Jeff Foxworthy gets much of his material. It’s where you don’t need to be a brain surgeon to spot a goat in a flock of sheep. Well hold on now Jethro; on second thoughts… In any event, it’s where my Christmas lights shine year-round; it’s where I now call home. It took a little getting used to. I mean, nowhere else I’ve ever lived has been blessed with so many visitations by our cousins from the farthest reaches of the Galaxy. Just about everyone swears to have seen at least one UFO. Hmm right, but then I read all about it in the National Perspirer so it must be true. Others claim to have seen Elvis. Honest! But my neighbor Cletus gets double bonus points because, no matter how drunk he was, he swears it was Elvis at the controls of the UFO that landed at Aunt Beulah’s Pancake House, Bait Shop, Tire Repair and Custom Denture Center out on the bypass last 4th of July. Now that was about the time when the Mayor, together with NASCAR Nellie (one of the, ahem, entertainers from The Buns-Up Transgender Traveling Revue) and all of the town’s pension funds vanished. A connection maybe? Just thinking out loud… Anyway, where I live is small, real small. If everyone in town could actually finish working on their pickups (as in - get them off the cinderblocks), get them started and hit the road at the same time, we still couldn’t manage a decent traffic jam. Heck, the lights at the crosswalk in the middle of downtown flash, “Dawdle” and “Don’t Dawdle.” I really didn’t intend to put down roots in this part of the world but the corporate gods, proving they are not without a sense of humor, transferred me here a number of years ago and the place, like kudzu, just grew on me. At first, living here was a bit like going overseas to meet distant relatives – different food, a strange language and, God Bless ‘em, the wonderfully odd assortment of folks I now call friends. Let me try to explain these cultural phenomena. First is the food which seems to be governed by one solitary culinary rule; “If you can’t deep fry it, pickle it.” Desserts fall into three categories - ice cream, puddin’ and pie. They’re heavily promoted by the local Sugar Growers Co-operative with major funding from the American Dental Society. When my sons were younger, they used to say that the four major food groups were; icky, yucky, tacky, and gross. I now realize they were wrong. They’re; lard, butter, cream and Maalox. Now a jar of pickled eggs and a shot of moonshine might give you a touch of heartburn for a spell but a big ol’ helping of the local staple; soup beans and cornbread washed down by a half-dozen longnecks, could easily fix any deficits in the economy with a simple, um, natural gas tax. Why, after Sunday supper at the all-you-can-eat diner out by the grain silo, we have to drive home with the windows down as soon as my buddy Junior’s Aunt Clementine’s belly starts a’rumbling and a’gurgling. Hey, Washington, never mind debating about drilling in ANWAR, this one old lady is sitting on a limitless supply of gas here. The EPA might have to get involved, but hey, it’s domestic, it’s renewable and yes, it’s green. “Let me fix you a plate,” is Southern talk for “If the fried chicken, hush puppies, cheese grits, green bean casserole and a gallon of sweet tea don’t kill you off, then Grandma’s sweet potato pie with the marshmallow and brown sugar topping will guarantee you first place in line at the E.R. every time.” Hey, don’t laugh; the wait staffs in the restaurants here don’t give you after-dinner mints with the check, they hang a Life Alert round your neck. Then, there’s the language problem. Being from the U.K., I thought that most of the rest of the world spoke some form of English. But, silly me, not even close. When I go to the supermarket, I have to check the labels to make sure I don’t get the wrong things, for instance, a rutabega’s a turnip; a turnip’s a parsnip and a parsnip’s, well, even Charles and Camilla wouldn’t know. I sure don’t. And on the topic of turnips, the rest of the world eats the actual vegetable and throws the pretty green foliage away, not the other way round. Go figure. Then there’s green beans; everyone else brings them to the boil, lets them simmer and maybe adds a touch of butter and a couple of slivered almonds for the French cuisine effect. Not here – got to boil ‘em with a slab of fatback for a day or two to get them “flavored”, effectively taking a healthful vegetable and converting it to a helping of clogged arteries. What you call cookies, I call biscuits and your biscuits are scones to us Brits. Elsewhere, gravy is brown and smooth, not wallpaper paste with lumps. So ordering the Southern breakfast favorite, biscuits and gravy anywhere else in the world will probably get you a blank stare. More likely, shot. I’ve learned that regarding time, only a Southerner knows exactly how long 'directly' is, as in: 'Sally-Mae is studying to be a doctor. She’ll be graduating directly.' And regarding distance, there’s 'right near' and 'a right far piece.' There’s also 'just down the road' which is somewhere between the end of the block and the other side of Oklahoma. And finally there’s The Folks. They’re warmhearted, kind, friendly and fun-loving. Saturday nights mean beer and barbeque, bowling and best of all, dancing down at Roxy’s Bar and Grill. Conveniently located right next door is the No-Tell Motel and Wedding Chapel, which just happens to be across the town square from the courthouse so come Monday morning, for the right amount of cash, you can get Saturday night’s marriage annulled if an excess of Southern Comfort may have clouded your judgment just a tad right about the time of the last dance. Hey, everybody looks good at midnight when the lights are low, you’re lonely, and you’re wasted, don’t they? So come Sunday mornin’ if your new spouse ain’t quite as good lookin’ as a few hours before….. Sitting in Roxy’s I noticed that even the music is different. All over the world, musicians play the violin. Violins have strings. Not here; here they play the fiddle. Fiddles have strangs. After Graceland, The Grand Ole Opry is the second Wonder of the World. Trying to pick an individual who epitomizes The South is impossible - there are so many. Outside of the wrestlers on Monday Night Raw and all the good ole boys who can drive a car 500 miles counter-clockwise really, really fast, it’s pretty much everyone on the Country Music channel. Martina gets compared with Mother Teresa but with a better sound system, Shania is just another PTA Mom, and Trish and Garth are, shucks, practically kin. And then there’s Betty-Joe. Betty-Joe and I met by accident – she ran over me on her Harley. But to make up for riding on the sidewalk, she cleaned me up, threw me over her shoulder and carried me down to Roxy’s for a beer, or two – cases that is. Hey, I’m no Brad and she ain’t no Angelina, but it was instant attraction. We were everything that the other had been looking for - I have Medicare and she can make a haze on a mirror. So when the band struck up the two-step, I couldn’t resist when my black-leather-clad mountain of love licked her lips, lifted me straight up, squeezed my head vice-like between her womanly assets and waltzed me, still a’dangling, right out the door. Heck, my feet didn’t touch the ground again till about a week on Tuesday and I don’t care what anyone says; that workout ain’t on NutriMirror’s exercise list nowheres. ______________________________________________________________ Remember – it ain’t over till they screw the lid on.
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