Amy's in the last of a three-day seminar here in Nashville. I've entertained myself by driving all over the city and suburbs. As usual, on one jaunt I took the wrong exit and drove through one of the spicier neighborhoods around the downtown area. For the most part, however, I managed to drive through the areas with few problems.
This morning, we checked out of the room, and I needed to find a place to spend the first part of the day. I ferried Amy to the meeting site and then returned to the Vanderbilt campus area. By the way, our motel room overlooked Vanderbilt stadium. I watched for two days as the field crew battled rain to paint lines and numbers on the soaked turf for the ballgame against Mississippi State. Our room would have been the perfect place to watch the game--see every play and avoid the crowds, drunks, public restrooms and outrageous concession prices.
Upon Amy's suggestion, I drove to Noshville for breakfast. Noshville is the best place in town to eat a morning meal. The food is heaped on the plate, and the building itself is a throwback from a time gone by. I ate my egg sandwich and fruit slowly and sipped my coffee as long as possible. I knew the time to leave had come when a line of waiting patrons stared at my sitting in a booth large enough to accommodate a party of four.
I faced a dilemma of where to go next. A couple of blocks down the road, the answer came. I whipped the car into the parking lot of Panera, ordered another cup of coffee and took a table. Panera is one of those places where a person can spend hours without feeling guilty. My first move at the table was to pull out my computer to check email messages.
Here on the fringe of Vanderbilt, hearing northern accents must be normal. Few folks talking in the place had that southern drawl with which I am so comfortable. At the counter two men in their twenties were ordering. One asked for a "soda," and his friend snickered at him. THe first asked if he'd said something humorous, to which the second said, "You asked for a soda!" The first man looked puzzled, and the expert on language in the South corrected him by saying, "I don't ever say soda. It's strange. Instead, I order a 'POP'!"
I don't dislike people from the North. I do object, however, to some attempts by a few to change our culture and our language. Somehow it's not fitting for them to do so. It's the same thing as someone visiting a friend's home and then re-arranging the furniture and restocking the refrigerator with all healthy foods. Lewis Grizzard called these folks Yankees and said he didn't care how folks used to do things up North. Grizzard also told those whom he called Yankees that Delta was ready when they were if they wanted to move back.
In today's world, the blending of North and South is inevitable. Hey, some good things might come from the land above the Mason-Dixon Line. I'd just like for newbies to the warmer climate to take a little time to do assimilate themselves to our way of life before they redecorate it.
I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong.
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