I was born and raised in the land of the Yankees. Not the baseball team but north of the Mason-Dixon line. Then many years ago, decades ago, I moved to Rebel territory, south, very south. I have lived down south, for longer then I lived up north. And when I think about it I have acquired, I guess by osmosis, some distinctly southern traits.
I now know that being 10 minutes early for an appointment is not late but crazy early.
80* is pleasantly warm not hellishly hot.
It is not rude to ask who you are kin to or what church you go to, but is odd not to ask.
When someone does something that is maybe not the most intelligent thing you say, “Well bless your heart”, not “What in the world were you thinking?!”
We crank the car instead of starting it.
Grits are to be eaten not something you do with your teeth.
Things are toted in sacks and not carried in bags.
Sweet iced tea is the nectar of the gods.
And of course, it is y’all not you guys.
So now I am having a bit of an identity crisis. I was a bit of a rebel Yankee girl but I think now I am a Rebel Yankee or a Yankee Rebel or something like that.