Southern States

I’m not one to complain, but the weatherman made a grievous mistake on national television. He pointed to the tip of Maryland and referred to it as the “Deep South.” Then, the young man slapped his knee and said, “Y’all gonna git some rain,” in a fake accent.

Just what We The People need. A Yankee jokester.

While I have no doubt this fella is a nice boy from Michigan, or North Dakota, I have a feeling he’s the kind who’d take the last biscuit from the supper table without regard for Granny.

The fact is, even though Maryland is below the Mason Dixon Line, it has never been the “Deep South.” If we’re going by basic elementary geography, Maryland is a Mid-Atlantic state. Maryland touches Pennsylvania, which borders New Jersey, which backs up to the Czech Republic.

And it might surprise you, but Virginia is also only partially Southern. Northern Virginian cities like Winchester and Leesburg are about as Dixie as cannoli. It’s not until you hit the bottom of the state you find good ol’ boys and dry counties.

I once had a friend from Clarksville who ordered beers in one quick Southern mumble. “Bleeve-gon’-hab-me-a-KOH-beer-honey.” And if you can understand that; you already know how rude it is to take the last biscuit.

Something else Northerners get wrong: Southern states are not without culture. We’re a diverse bunch. In our parts, we’ve got more culture than a rotten jar of yogurt.

We have it all. Hillbillies, rednecks, Birminghamites, swamp rats, white collars, blue collars, Cajuns, Nashville big-hairs, Kiwanis, snake handlers, Primitive Baptists, Mexicans, Italians, red and yellow, black and white, good people, bad people, evil people, and LSU fans.

Thus, it doesn’t seem right that our part of the nation gets lumped in with Godless cities like Baltimore — which is about as Southern that green toothpaste served with sushi.

And so, I’m writing this to my beloved meteorologist, who doesn’t appear old enough to shave yet. My advice to him is:

Maryland is most definitely not the Deep South. Quit slapping your knee, unless you’re at a Ralph Stanley concert. Refrain from using the word, “y’all,” until you seek professional guidance. And never, ever — no matter where you find yourself — take the last biscuit.

Unless you’re name’s Granny.

Or Jesus.