Southern exposure

Rob and I spent last weekend in Virginia celebrating the life of his 96-year-old grandma who passed away recently. Nuna was a spunky, funny, young-at-heart southern lady who loved bridge, baseball, and – unbeknownst to many in the family – professional wrestling. She spoke with a slight southern accent peppered with “y’alls” and “I declares.” She apologized profusely for the dirty shambles her always spotless apartment was in, and she her homemade fudge could be counted on to produce a full complement of her bridge club's members. Nuna and Daddy Edgar raised a daughter as well as a son who in turn raised the man I am lucky enough to be spending my life with. As I firmly believe that there is a silver lining to everything if you just look hard enough, it came as no surprise that a trip prompted by such a sad occasion turned into a fabulously fun gathering of about half of Rob’s “yours, mine, and ours” family.

Six of us gathered at dinner the first night. Before the key lime pie was finished (I stopped just short of licking the plate), I had a cocktail napkin with three southern quotes jotted for Yankee posterity and discernment. By the time we were heading to the airport two days later, my napkin was full.

Trying to keep our complicated requests straight, our young waitress took out her pad and quipped, “A short pencil beats a long memory every day.” We quoted her often throughout the weekend.

Aunt Bobbie (pronounced “ant” by the northerners at the table, “ahhnt” by one transplanted southerner, and “ain’t” by the guy who grew up along the North Carolina border) had to repeat three times through our laughter her observation during a story that a particularly frustrating situation “would make a tad pole want to smack a whale.”

Rob’s dad later apologized for “…kicking the traces on this…” and then had to explain to his grown children with iPhones what “traces” are. It had something to do with wagons and horses.

The next morning a different half-pack of us descended upon a local Waffle House for breakfast. Apparently some refer to it as the Awful House. It is a chain known for its greasy coffee shop fare and questionable cleanliness, customer service, and quality. Which of course makes it that much more fun, the unpredictability of whether one’s meal will actually be edible. We were clearly “not from ‘round here” as we waited for a pressed-board booth to become available. Amongst us we had fancy sunglasses, designer purses, gelled hair, and six full sets of teeth. As we squeezed into the booth built for four, our waitress sized us up and told us not to order the country style ham or grits. “Wet sand,” she derided with a curled lip. The waitress asked my sister-in-law what type of toast she wanted, prompting the next entry on my Quote Napkin. “Sourdough?!? You’re at the WA-FFLE HOUSE. White or wheat. You the ones from California? Yeah, I could tell.” Undeterred by our waitress’s warnings, there were three orders of grits on our table. I tried them plain, with sugar, and with salt. My verdict: few things can not be improved with Tabasco and this includes grits. Mmmm! Our feast also included some chocolate chip waffles, bacon, eggs, and some hash browns chunked and smothered. Ewww. Ok, fine, it just means they were mixed with ham and cheese. Oh, and white toast for Beth.

Later, during the service for Nuna, a cousin was talking about other family members who lived “way up in Yankeeland. In Pennsylvania.” At the reception afterwards, I pondered what the Pacific Northwest would be considered by my husband’s extended family. But then I got distracted by the heavenly homemade red velvet cake made by some sweet church ladies who refused to acknowledge my hints for a recipe. It was enough to make a tad pole… Anyway, I’m grateful I had a piece as an appetizer because by the time I went back to have another slice for dessert, it had disappeared without a crumb left to delicately and discreetly nab with my finger.

That night the immediate family gathered in Nuna’s living room and ate southern-style bar-b-que, coleslaw, pizza, and butterscotch cake. We played card games, told stories, looked at old photos, and got Aunt Bobbie on Facebook. After trying to call it a night, the Waffle House contingent…still in varying time zones that were not Eastern Standard…decided to buy some wine and lounge about in the hotel’s lobby for a bit. Three of us went to the closest convenience store and purchased the least scary wine available with just 15 minutes to spare before the only alcohol that could be purchased was Nyquil. The surprisingly early witching hour explained the sudden and wobbly swarm of people lining up with us next to the beef jerky.

We found a little sitting area off to the side of the lobby and were amused by the increasingly intoxicated wedding reception attendees that wandered through. Chad weaved over and slurred that his brother had just gotten married and he was very proud. “We had a fifth of Jack Daniels as a door prize,” Chad boasted. “Did you win?” asked my hilariously tactful sister-in-law-to-be. Yes, if proud is measured in fifths, Chad was indeed bursting at the seams.

Chad then provided the last quote on my napkin. As we sat there in a very nicely appointed Sheraton lobby, it was hard to imagine such things were happening in the nearby ballroom. But even well over 0.08, it would be hard to make this up. Still glowing (or sweating, your pick) with nuptial excitement, Chad asked us, “Have you ever been to a wedding where they skinned a deer at the reception?” Yep, we weren’t in Yankeeland anymore.