I was born north of Boston. Not by much, but still North of NORTH! So I am, by some lights a thoroughbred Yankee.
My father was in the Navy, and his ship was in the Boston Navy Yard for refit and modernization. This was 1940 and such was in great demand for the US Navy. He himself was a Floridian, but that’s of no account to the “Yankee!” yellers.
I have lived ‘up there’ for a while, on one job or another and find I have no attachment for the place, the people, or their ways. I have never missed New England. Not one bit. But this is not to be a tirade against that place or people.
Rather I’d like to speak about the South . . . my South. I’ve lived and worked in Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Mississippi, and now these past 35 years, Texas. My heart, indeed my soul, is embedded in the red clay and black sandy loam of South Carolina, the Caliche of Texas, I am bound to Old Dixie by the very fibre of my being. The sound of a Red Bone at a distance, the ‘chop’ of a good Walker at a hard run; the scent of a pot of beans properly prepared; deer meat and rice in an iron kettle in the damp woods on a cold November day in the Low Country. Hot Cornbread ‘n Coffee of a mornin’, maybe a dollop of honey on the bread.
The tall pines rising up to the stars, soft needle bed underfoot, heavy oaks draped with Spanish Moss in the moonlight.The sudden breath of warm air deep in the woods on a frosty February night late. That scent tells you to holler, real quick and real loud, “We’re just gonna call the dogs and go home now!” and that deep, deep voice from out of the blackness, “That’s a good Idea, boys!” So the horn blows, once, twice, and we don’t breathe until we hear the dogs coming. “Thankee, Lord, Thankee!”
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