my southern-ishness

It started with new reports about a tornado that hit our hometown in mid-May. A local feller was interviewed and his twang made us look at each other with the question about whether that is how we sounded. It didn't seem like it was possible. But the recent trip back to Missouri revealed some southern inside of us. To a certain extent, it's similar to learning that I descended from an exotic race from a previous generation. As startling as such a discovery was for us (admitting that it is a geographic inheritance and not biological) it helped clear things up a bit and pull together some odd pieces.

There were lots of signs, literal and figurative. One example is the hydrological feature that others would call a stream is what our kin refer to as a crick. Another was the somehow familiar yet odd realization that state roads in Missouri are identified by letters: Route P ran northeast out of town and Route K was a major north-south road west of Kirskville. Culinarily, I was struck by how often biscuits were available and that coffee cups held hot brown water that had very little taste. Religion, as in fundamental Christian religiosity, was everywhere (someone tried witnessing to me at a reception) and most everyone was polite and cheerful. I was startled by how quickly we fell into conversation in the car about the scenery: Is that a pasture or are they not farming that plot? That has to be wheat -- and over there, the corn won't be knee high by July Fourth.

Now I won't go so far as to suggest that we are "pure" southern. There are many distinguishing features of the Old South that don't apply. We don't have a rich literature base with the likes of Faulkner (Twain: maybe but he did all his writing after moving away). Nor are we as steeped in history. We can lay claim to some artists. Paintings such as this one really capture the agricultural richness and the angry storms that sweep the countryside. This image of yellowed corn indicates that this was an autumn scene. And our arrival in St Louis airport was closely followed by a vicious thunderstorm that drove the rain sideways, lightning that tricked the streetlights into turning off, and the amazingly dense air the next morning. It was so reminiscent of our youth but simultaneously strange. I noticed for the first time how dark green the roadside oaks were compared to the maples that dominate the New England landscape. Distinct and special -- a perspective made possible only by an extended absence.