The Confederate Yankee

Roscommon County Herald News
By James P. Dikin (1991)

Ten years ago we lost one of our’s to the land of sunshine, red clay, snakes & spiders. Having traded his overcoat, gloves, thermal underwear and snow shovel for sun block, mosquito repellant and snake boots, he headed southward to fame and fortune.

During the long evolution the Yank developed a tolerance for grits, fried okra, fat back with soup beans and cracklin’ cornbread. That tolerance led to the greater gastric experiences of banana pudd’n, peach cobbler, fried pies and sweet roasted pecans (pronounced pe’cans).

Even the hunting and fishing was different. The locals climbed trees and viewed their prey from atop (long before us Yanks thought of it). I tried it a few times. Close your eyes and imagine a 300 lb. man in camo perched between two trees, sitting on a board. All was fine, but you see, I often doze off when I’m comfortable… caught myself twice just in time and decided to stay on the tare’ ferma.

Yank was used to the Northern Pike, Sunfish, Walleye and Perch, but found his counterpart to be masters of Bass, Catfish and Brim (our Bluegill). Every Saturday and Sunday the highways were jammed with endless streams of Bass & Jon Boats in search of the elusive lunkers. Bait shops along the way provide hot biscuits from the Tasty Pig, coffee, Moon Pies, Dr. Pepper & Yahoo (a bottle of Hot Chocolate made yesterday and left in the fridge overnight). These roadside malls also had every size and color of rubber worm imaginable, jigs galore and just about anything needed to get the job done.

I finally got to the fishing hole. Boy I hate red water… As Yank waits patiently in line to slide his 12ft skiff into the water he eyes the rig next in line. That good-ol-boy’s got him a ‘92 model Ranger sporting (2) depth finders, trolling motor larger than my 5 hp. Elgin, carpeted deck and live-box.

While Yank put-puts around Lake Lanier aimlessly trying to find the secret holes, his Southern counterparts zip from spot to spot at breakneck speed creating a wake that would rock the Queen Elizabeth II. What ever happened to the peaceful tranquility of fishing? This new breed of sport fisherman is high-keyed, short-tempered, high strung and high tech, lacking the patience to accept fishing as a means to peaceful relaxation.

Southern shopping provided Yank a special treat. The drawl of the southern girls & women was different and pleasing to the ears. He would swear that 90 percent of them were pregnant, maybe they’re all drinking the same red water. Yank could never totally understand the conversations of the local males. Their talk was a blurred blend of drool & drawl. Yank did develop a keen ability to predict how difficult a local would be to understand by following behind him. You see, if a man (or even a boy) wore jeans with a circle outlined on the back pocket the guy was a mumbler. Chaw, chew, dip and snuff all provide media for jawbone exercise. Chewing is a very private but public habit. Hank never had anyone offer to share their chaw with him. Most chawers keep a Coke can or plastic cup handy as a portable spittoon. My wife once grabbed a pop can thinking it was her’s…. not!! Almost had to take her to Emergency to get her stomach pumped. That would have been hard to explain to the doctor… he would have been local and blamed my wife (she’s blonde). Yank once observed competitive target practice where flies and spiders evaded the brown barrage. Some chaw’ers brag of mid-air insect interceptions, although like their fish stories, they’re hard to believe.

Yank learned much about Southern Hospitality. He learned the meaning of “sit-a-spell”, “Ya’ll come back now, ‘ya her”, “ya’ll come see us”. But, nothing was so enlightening as the “Hey” wave, (Hey means hi below the Line). While driving down the road Yank saw locals walking, cutting their grass, sitting on their front porch or even approaching in their pre 70’s pick up and they would raise their hand with forefinger extended to salute you. Yank felt like he was finally acknowledged and someone special and promptly learned to respond with a similar gesture. He often wondered how that salute would be taken back is his Northern environment. Would the salute be miss-interpreted and take offense? Would it prompt a negative response from the salute’s 9mm Oozy, or maybe it would start a gang war.

Yank’s counterparts were oft-times referred to as “Lay-back”. Lay back does not mean lazy, they just march to the beat of a different drum. It’s like comparing march music in 6/8 time to the ¾ time of a waltz. Yank found many laborers worked sun-up to sun-down, but left work at noon every Friday. Bosses never really expected workers to show up on opening day of hunting or fishing season. He went to work one day, but his boss never showed - it was the opening day of dove season.

Well, Yank’s come back home now. Back to friends and family. Back to the environment and lifestyle he fully understands. It’s time to renew relationships. This will be easy. He doesn’t have to learn to fit in…. just remember. His friends don’t have to be made… just looked up. Relatives don’t have to be written to…… just stop by and “sit-a-spell”.

Welcome Home Yank and remember…… Don’t Wave!!