It’s no secret our little corner of the world is more diverse than it once was. Thousands of transplants from other states, countries and continents have chosen to call our area home.
I recently was introduced to a man with an intriguing, clipped accent.
“Where are you from?” I asked because that’s what we do down here.
He smiled and said, “Georgia.”
Now, my people don’t like to be played.
“You are not from Georgia,” I said because I actually do argue with strangers.
He laughed and amended his reply: “Georgia, the independent republic.” As in, once part of the Soviet Union.
“OK then,” I said. “Do you like raw oysters?” (That’s not the non sequitur it sounds like. They were being served.)
“No,” he said quickly. “I don’t like wiggly food.” He was a lovely guy.
Everyone who moves here adds another thread to the fabric of our lives (which sounds like a Paul Anka song). I’ve always enjoyed meeting people with different perspectives, customs and time-honored traditions.
Here’s a question: When do you stop being a newcomer and become … one of us? Some tells indicate if you’re on the road to being a bona fide Southerner with a capital S.
- You begin collecting bow ties.
- Your Insta’ is filled with photos of the Ravenel Bridge, marsh sunsets and the Morris Island lighthouse.
- You own Christmas ornaments made from oyster shells.
- Boiled peanuts are your favorite snack.
- You tell your grandkids to call you Mee-Maw.
- You begin to understand the appeal of seersucker suits in August.
- Your favorite restaurant is Cracker Barrel.
- You throw all your pantyhose away.
- After starting small with a simple bird feeder, you add a finch, hummingbird, cardinal and songbird feeder. Also, you now hate squirrels.
- You call armadillos “possum on the half-shell.”
- You eat — and enjoy – an RC Cola and a Moon Pie.
- You develop a deep, abiding hatred of mosquitoes.
- You gloat over being able to drive from the ocean to the mountains in five hours.
- You have a monogrammed oyster knife.
- Anything below 75 degrees feels a little chilly.
- You’ve made a pilgrimage to The Varsity.
- You own two or more pairs of Madras shorts. (Your gender is irrelevant.)
- You’ve learned humidity is not just a weather status. It’s a hot, wet washcloth that slaps you in the face from April through September.
- You know happiness is a hammock under Spanish moss.
- The house you live in would cost three times as much where you come from.
- You like collard greens.
- You sell your snow shovel at a garage sale.
- You own a beer fridge.
- You get excited when deer and wild turkeys visit your yard.
- You know that barbecue is both a noun and a verb. If you’ve been here long enough, you will briskly debate the merits of mustard, white, vinegar and tomato-based.
- Mildew is your mortal enemy.
- It’s Dukes or nothing on your tomato sammich. (Also, you haven’t eaten grocery store tomatoes in years.)
- You sing in a church choir, even if you can’t sing.
- One of your pets — whether a dog, cat, hamster or goat — is named Bubba.
- You’ve perfected a recipe for beer can chicken.
- You know what “third cousin, once removed” actually means. You will also learn to use the term “shirt-tail cousin” to speed things along.
- You’re thinking about buying a couple of acres in the country.
- You believe that fire ants are from the devil (and you are correct.)
Julie R. Smith, who needs a hammock, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.
