The other soundtrack to my life

I know that I've already written about how the banjo is the soundtrack to my life, but I think I have two soundtracks. Please don't think I'm cheating on the banjo, it's not like that.

I just happened to find one particular song that I love equally - the banjo will understand.

"Take a Back Road" by Rodney Atkins

This is the song that epitomizes where I'm at in my life right now. I live in a city, and don't get me wrong I love it most of the time, but every once in a while I just want to be on a country road.

Bless Rodney Atkins' heart, he always knows just what to say.

Driving Miss Daisy

If you follow my blog or know me at all then you’ve heard (read) my discussions about how torn I am between being country and being proper. Well, nothing has changed, we’re just moving on to the driving conundrum.

I’m no Miss Daisy, but as a good southern woman I prefer to be driven whenever I’m out with a man. This is most certainly not a hard and fast rule, but it is traditional. What can I say? I like tradition.

See me in the back seat?

But here comes the conundrum… one of my greatest passions in life is driving.

I love everything about it – the wind in my hair, the feel of my car winding down a switchback road, the sound of music drifting out my windows into the open air. And more than that, it’s my version of therapy.

Again, if you know me at all, then you know that I drive when I’m upset. Have no fear fellow drivers, I don’t go cruising around if I’m too upset to be safe, but if I just need to clear my head and get some perspective on a situation then nothing is better than a drive down an old back road.

My proper side loves to be driven. My country side loves to drive. It’s a war of independence, a clash of ideals and I have no control over it. At least I don’t feel like I do.

This issue only recently surfaced and its origin traces back to an incredibly unhealthy relationship I had with my ex-boyfriend. He always drove us everywhere, which was great in the beginning, except we always took my car because his was unreliable.

Then it progressed to the point where he did not allow me to drive my own car when we went out. Period. No discussion.

I know what you’re thinking, and no, I have no idea why I stayed with him. But I digress.

Luckily the relationship finally ran its course and I regained full control of my car. But now I struggle to let anyone else drive it, let alone a man. I need to reaffirm my independence and my control over my own life, so I’m doing it in the simplest way possible – driving.

So am I proper or am I country? Do I want to drive or be driven? Do I want beer or wine?

Bless your heart, if you know the answer I sure wish you’d tell me because I’d love to know.

Praying to Dionysus

Since I crossed the Georgia border I've been praying to Dionysus and he finally answered my prayers by way of the Butterducks Winery in Guyton, Georgia.




Put an animal on your label and people are putty in your hands.


For those of you who aren't up to par on Greek God trivia, Dionysus, also known as Bacchus, is the God of wine, agriculture and fertility of land. Essentially he's my hero.

If you don't know about my love affair with wine, then you don't know me at all. Shame on you.

I will direct your attention to the right side of this photo.
I also have a love affair with stemware - and this is only part of my collection.  Don't judge me.

On a trip to Savannah prior to my graduate school induced move, my father and I had a very fateful visit to a winery in City Market. I have blocked that portion of my life from my memory because it was so terrible.

It was the first time in my life I'd wanted to spit out wine. I never waste wine.

From that moment on I was convinced that North Carolina was the only state that had great independent wineries. Before you say anything, yes, I realize plenty of other states have them too. But let me be a little narcassistic on behalf of my great state, alright?

Then it all changed.

I got a magical phone call that my friend, knowing my love of wine, had located a winery in the country - totally my style.

As soon as the first sip of that sweet Chardonnay hit my lips, the light butter taste and smooth oak accent let me know that Dionysus hadn't forgotten about me, he'd lead me home.

Bless your heart Dionysus, I bet you knew how to have a good time.

The country bar

As I mentioned before, most of my friends in Savannah are not from the South, although several are from rural communities. But even though we share the bond of the rural perspective, I think we're having some linguistic discrepencies.

For as long as I can remember they have been talking about finding a country bar. There was even talk of square dancing and cowboy boots. I think we're on two different pages.

Where I'm from, I would consider most every bar to be country. In my mind there isn't a deliniation between country and non-country bar... they're just bars.

At the bars I'm used to, there isn't much square dancing, mind you, and while most people do wear cowboy boots, it's only because those are their fancy shoes. However, you will find in droves the staple of any country bar -- rednecks throwing back Budweisers like they're going out of style.

Maybe they'll let us join their drinking team? A girl can only dream.

With this experience in my mind, I feel like my friends and I are going into this adventure with different expectations. I'm expecting to see a bar filled with rednecks drinking beer, completely reminiscent of my high school days. I think they might be expecting to see a bar scene out of 8 seconds, but dramatized with a choreographed dance number, of course.

But then again, we will be in rural Georgia. Anything can happen, right? Bless their hearts, this is the home of the redneck games. What's a little square dancing after spending a day bobbing for pig's feet?

Anyone need a green card?

I recently made a trip home to North Carolina. While I was there I got to spend some time with Bob*, one of my best friends from undergrad - quite the treat!

However, things almost took a turn for the worse (or the hilarious) when my sister and I took Bob with us to lunch at a hole in the wall sandwich place in the country.

At this point it is important to note that Bob is the trifecta of ethnicities - French Canadian, American and Mexican. But physically speaking the Mexican portion is the most prominent.

While eating lunch, another old friend of mine, James*, walked in. After chatting with him for a few minutes, I returned to my table to find my sister and Bob laughing hysterically.

Apparently, they were planning to approach James and tell him that Bob and I were engaged, but only so Bob could get his green card. As fuel to the fire, Bob was going to speak solely in Spanish the entire time.

Green means go?

Hilarious, but not good.

In my hometown, people are not exactly fond of hispanics, nor do they respect them very often. So the prospect of one of their own (me) dating "one of them" (my hispanic friend) probably wouldn't have gone over too well.

Bless my heart, if they had followed through it could have branded me for the rest of my dating life.

*Names have been changed.

Personally, I'd like another Southern Renaissance

I was having a conversation recently about the North -- Shocking, I know -- and I mentioned that the North is intriguing to me because of all the great authors that hail from that region. The names Emerson, Dickinson and Hawthorne come to mind.

But even as I cited New England authors as some of the American greats, the words felt sour on my tongue because the South has produced just as many influential authors. They just don't necessarily receive the same type of recognition.

William Faulkner, Robert Penn Warren, W.J. Cash -- these were some of the most transcendent writers of their time, and mine for that matter, but for the most unlikely reason.

Crazy guy that William Faulkner.

Robert Penn Warren, he's a funny one.

As my former Southern history professor used to say, these authors burst the Southern bubble of unreality. Meaning that they said the things Southern women had been sweeping under the rug for decades and decades. They exposed the secret that the South wasn't as romantic as it seemed.

Needless to say, things got a little messy. But the ensuing literary movement, the Southern Renaissance, which began in the 1920s and 1930s, helped propel the South from being known as the land of anti-intellectuals to a place that might have some semblance of a brain.

So the next time you hear someone mention the great American authors, you make sure they remember the Southern authors too.

Bless your heart William Faulkner, you did us proud even if you were crazy.

Home is where the rebels yell

I've been reluctant to admit it, but Georgia (specifically Savannah) is growing on me. Let's not go crazy here, Georgia and I still have plenty of issues to work out, but overall it isn't so bad.

Except for being unable to buy alcohol at all on Sunday's. I will never get over that.

In North Carolina we can buy alcohol on Sunday's after 12. I'm not sure they meant to make it that way, but that time is oddly convenient to the time church gets out. Food for thought.

North Carolina A.L.E. is locked and loaded.

But just as I thought I was starting to accept my newfound coastal lifestyle, I went home. And I attended a country music concert no less.

I walked away from that concert with two revelations. One, Tim McGraw is the George Clooney of the country music world, a.k.a. he is a hot old man. Two, I miss North Carolina so much it hurts.

There is just nothing like sitting on the lawn of a Tim McGraw, Luke Bryan and The Band Perry concert, hearing the performers talk about how great North Carolina is and then hearing an overwhelming amount of rebel yells in response.

Home sweet home.

As I weaved my way to the bathroom I passed a multitude of men with no shirt, a beer gut and work boots on. It was enough to bring a tear to my eye... especially after that $14 Strawberry Daiquiri.

Georgia has been a nice place to live for now, at this time in my life. But there is just no place quite like North Carolina.

I love it, hate it and am confused by it, but at the end of the day, bless my heart, it's my home.

I leave you to enjoy a song by North Carolina native Eric Church titled "Carolina."

Depends on how you were raised

As I'm sure you're aware, yesterday was the Fourth of July and being the patriotic person that I am, I celebrated with a good ol' fashioned BBQ on the lake (more on that later).

At this particular BBQ there was a guy I met who was originally from up North and who was none to happy about being in the South. This of course caused me to make assumptions about him. And we all know what happens when people assume.

This guy turned out to be one of the most polite, well-mannered and genuine people I've ever met, which intrigued me. Later in the night I was talking to him about that fact and mentioned that he was already acting like a southern gentleman.

He looked at me and casually said, "It has nothing to do with the South. This was just how I was raised."

Touche.

I of all people should never have made the assumption that regional influences had anything to do with how polite a person is or is not. I know plenty of rednecks who are just as rude as stereotypical Northerners.

This guy is right. Bless your heart, regional differences aside, at the end of the day how you are raised and the person you choose to be is what really matters.