Get ready for reverse culture shock.
Where are the biscuits and gravy? No more grits and black-eyed peas, not to mention butter beans, mac and cheese and red velvet cake.
North of here you can’t say, “Pass the corn bread or hush puppies,” either. How ’bout southern fried…?
There’ll be no more mashing of buttons, taking NASCAR, or swilling sweat tea.
College football, up north, what’s that? How ’bout them Dawgs? Ramblin’ Wreck? Roll Tide?
BBQ? Don’t say “y’all” any more.
Even the rhododendrons stopped growing about 175 miles back. Mountain Laurel just isn’t the same.
Oh, the travesty of having to miss it all, ya’ll.
There are things I won’t miss. Like Sunday mornings when the “unregulated militia” pops rounds at 10 a.m. on the dot -everywhere I hiked. The 1,000-mile regularity of this quaint cultural artifact was disconcerting. Same for a certain banner that symbolizes more than most will admit.
Time to embrace pastrami, Sicilian pizza and better wine. Let’s not forget poutine over fries, grinders, cheese steak, hot dogs, clam bakes, Chowdah, lobstah, maple sirup, frappes, soda pop and pumpernickel.
Then again ya got your beans – LL or Boston baked. Take your pick.
When I reach Red Sawks nation I’ll become a hik-ah and pawk my cah in Havard Yahd. I’ll wear my parker in New Hampshire when it gets cold. I’m also secretly hoping for a little R&R in Boston to catch a Red Sox game from the seats on top of the Green Monstah. Go Sox!
Life is about to change.
Bye-bye “Dixie.” Hello “Yankee Doodle.”
Heading north and makin’ tracks. Warmest regards, Sisu