I like the South.
Sure, politically, they are on the wrong side of things.
But they are friendly.
At the airport in Nashville, you can get delicious barbecue. With a side of macaroni and cheese, collards and a corn muffin. For my part, no arm twisting necessary.
The friendly, dopey guy at the counter, acknowledging the choices in the steam table, among them carrots, said, “When I eat those, I can watch the grass grow.”
Then, he asked me if I understood the joke.
I said, “Yeah, carrots.”
I smiled. We got along.
Then he said, “My grandfather used to eat carrots and then stand close to the wall just looking at it. My grandmother would ask him what he was doing and he’d say, “I can see the paint getting a little dryer.”
It’s shared stories, no matter how unimportant, that makes the south pretty homey.
Even at the airport.
And the chicken, of course.
No comments:
Post a Comment