Last weekend myself (a Yankee) and my lifelong friend Gary (also a Yankee)
visited the old north state. He's retired and I am soon to be and we both
have decided we don't like snow and thought we'd look around down south.

Oh snow, is pretty enough but I'm dad goned well tired of driving and
sloshing through it for weeks at a time.

Our trip down was uneventful and we got off on the highway to Lenoir and
long about dark thirty and approaching Mark's place we cracked a beer. Bad
idea. Traffic was absolutely horrible and I mean no offense to anyone when I
say that some of those southern drivers need to spend a week in NYC to learn
how to.

After two wrong turns and a u-turn or two we realized that we were not going
to find Mark's house in the dark and we started feeling ungentlemanly about
the traffic and the magic moment was gone. Mark, see you next time.

Spent the night in Hickory, drove over to Brevard the next day and headed
for Wayno in Gold Hill that night.

Fabulous. Wayno's cousin has absolutely refurbished an entire 1840's gold
mining town, has a nice restaurant (wonderful food) and the old family
homestead is a joy to behold. I told the wife that if I had had my camera I
would have taken "two" pictures of every room.

You may not believe it but Wayno's a pretty fair guitar player and singer in
his own right and after way too much imbibing at the restaurant, and way too
much at the cousin's, we proceeded to the homestead to get serious. I didn't
know I could drink so much.

On the way over, Gary had asked if Wayno smoked and I said no we would have
to go outside and he asked if Wayno drank. I told him yes and that he was
good at it. I found out he's 'very' good at it.

One of the most interesting parts of the journey was listening to Wayno and
Darus caution us about the south. About the feelings towards those damned
Yankees. It's a little different than up here in the north where families
disperse and roots are lost.

Wayno recalls sitting on his Grandmothers knee, with her talking about when
she was a girl and the Yankees came through. took all the food. Burnt the
crops. Threw dead animals in the wells. . . .and I could see where we were
being told the truth, that we would indeed meet those who remembered such
things too, and that their hospitality might not be so kind.

I felt kind of left out not having much in the way of heritage or tradition
to talk about. I suppose I could have talked about the guy my sister
married. My brother-in-law. Oh, he's a nice enough fellow and we talk and
chat from time to time.

He's got a real funny name. His first name is George. Now let me see if I
have this right, his second name is William. Now his third name is Butler
and his last name...well...it's Sherman, the fourth or fifth or something
like that.

It was his great grand daddy who killed the goat that was thrown it in the
well.

Well, when's a good time to visit you boys in the old tar-heel state again?

john