Pop a Corkscrew
I always heard, growing up, that Yankees did a lot of drinking. I'm not talking about meeting down at the local beer joint for a few pints before heading home, or slipping down the holler to fetch a jar from Old Dooley, who kept his own supply of corks for a different purpose, if you know what I mean. I mean they drank all the time, anytime, and it didn't matter where, when, or with who.
Southerners are a little different, although we have our share of drinkers and no mistaking it. But we, as a general rule, are selective about who we drink in front of. After all, it wouldn't be seemly for word to get out down at the First Church of Self-Righteousness that the Sunday School teacher had a cocktail or two to celebrate her birthday.
See, in Dixie we don't do our drinking for all and sundry to see. Why, here in
Yankeeland you can have a church wedding and serve champagne at the reception all in the same building! If you suggested that idea where I'm from people would look at you kinda funny and ask, "You
aint from around here, are ya?" No, here the
churchouse is for weddings and funerals and general repenting of wrongs. You can have your reception inside the church but if you want to drink anything stronger than ginger ale punch, or smoke a cancer stick or two, you have to go out in the parking lot with the rest of the deacons.
Which leads me to the subject of corkscrews. Now, in the South we have bottles with corks in them, but we don't need a special tool to remove them. After all, Old Dooley didn't need a special tool to put them in, and we sure as hell ain't gonna be sniffing the ones we pull out of the bottle, since heaven only knows where its been. But here in
Yankeeland, corkscrews are
de rigeur. Every household must have one, sometimes more than one, and the fancier they are, the better.
When I first moved up here and started unpacking my kitchen ware, I was digging through my husbands already acquired tools and
knickknacks and found at least three different corkscrews. While none of them were especially fancy, I did have to wonder why he had three of them. And then it
occurred to me. He was married three times before he met me. The corkscrews must have been wedding presents. After all, what self-respecting Yankee wants to have friends over for Italian food and not be able to open the bottle of wine that's presented? So, for each marriage he must have received a corkscrew from well-meaning friends wanting to save him that
embarrassment.
Personally, I can't stand wine. Who wants to drink soured grape juice when there are so many different grains to distill? Once, in college, I decided to drink three bottles of Boone's Farm in one evening. While I lived to tell the tale it did spoil the whole wine experience for me and I can't stand the taste of it. Which is sad, because I have exquisitely sensitive
taste buds and would have made an excellent sommelier.
But, I digress. It seems to me that Yankee households need corkscrews for some reason, and that is why my kitchen drawer still holds three of these utensils that we never use. My boss, on the other hand, has a magic corkscrew that somehow removes the cork from champagne bottles with little or no twisting involved. I know this because while I was at the counter inventing Neopolitan shots (Vanilla Stolli, Strawberry Stolli, Creme De Cacao, and a splash of Godiva Liqueur) she was opening the fancy champagne so we could toast 2007 in style.
Personally, I'd rather toast with straight vodka but people look at me funny when I toss back a shot of Absolut without grimacing and say something like, "God *&^%, where the &^%$ are you from?" But at least I know what to shop for if my idiot daughter decides to marry her baby-daddy.
I'll go straight out and buy them a corkscrew.
Whatever Happened to Personal Responsibility?
Well, friends and neighbors, its been awhile since I gave you all a dose of life in Yankeeland, and its not because I've had nothing to say. Believe me, I have a lot to say but precious little time to say it. So, this being a new year and a new beginning of sorts, I thought I'd catch you all up on what's going on.
It seems that since I first posted my musings on the family traditions of mental illness, idiots, and tortured geniuses my daughter has firmly aligned herself with the 'idiot' party. She was, briefly, somewhat of a cocaine addict, although she was able to pick that up and put it down at will. Then she dropped out of rehab, left home, dropped out of school, and got pregnant. Forgive me if I'm mistaken but I don't think anyone can call that 'tortured genius' material. Nope. The girl's definitely a moron. Now she's in Tennessee with her dad and the father of her child and doesn't understand why Yankeeboy wants to go home and doesn't want to stay with her in Dixie and live happily ever after. (Personally, I don't understand why he doesn't want to stay in Dixie, but since I have a hard time staying in the same house with my daughter I can understand his dilemma to a degree.) Now she's mad at me and my husband because we won't send them money to come home. Why would we want them to come home? I've dealt with this girl for the past 18 years of her life. Let her father have a bit of the pleasure and I'll enjoy the peace and quiet.
I just don't understand it. Here is a child who thinks, because she turned 18, that she's entered the magical land of adulthood, where you can do whatever you want with no consequences and everything is provided for you by elves or fairies or those funny looking creatures reported to live under naughty childrens' beds. The words 'school', 'job' and 'personal responsibility' seem to mean little or nothing to her, and while her boyfriend is a nice enough boy he doesn't have a very firm grasp on those concepts either, bless his little impregnating Yankee heart. It's almost enough to make me go back to church!
I can't say I was always a model of responsible adulthood as a teenager, but I knew a few things. One, I knew that if I broke the rules, I'd get an ass-whuppin', even if only in the figurative sense. Second, I knew that if I wanted to obtain the things necessary for a comfortable life I was going to have to get out and get some kind of decent education and a job. Either that or marry a rich boy whose daddy was generous with allowances. Seeing as how rich boys were in short supply in my neck of the woods I opted for education and a job.
My daughter says I'm a hypocrite for several reasons. One, because I dropped out of college. That somehow makes it okay for her to drop out of high school, according to idiot logic. Two, because I've smoked pot with my husband. That somehow makes it okay for her to do whatever drugs she wants to do, never mind that I'm a consenting adult fully aware of the consequences and risks involved and able to limit my consumption of any mind-altering substances to a few special occasions each year. Three, I'm a hypocrite because I got pregnant before I was married. That makes it okay for her to do the same thing...never mind the fact that I was 22 years old, already engaged to her father, he had a job and a high school diploma (as did I) and I was living on my own supporting myself.
Okay, at the risk of this degenerating into a rant rather than a pointed observation of cultural differences I have to ask what the hell is wrong with kids these days? When did all their problems become the parents fault? What about mea culpa? Doing the time if you do the crime? Paying the piper for dancing to his tune? Are all those time-honored idioms a bunch of mindless drivel now?
And now here comes the pointed cultural observation: My grandfather (whose father was the one who made that classic remark about bread and whiskey I mentioned earlier) was abandoned, along with his 5 other brothers and sisters, after the death of his mother. She died of tuberculosis when he was 8, and his father, who totally gave up bread in favor of the whiskey, stayed gone most of the time. He had to drop out of school in the third grade and go to work in the coal mines to help support his family. His older sister would hook him to the plow and he would pull it while she steered so they could plant food to eat. The dog would go out and kill small game so they'd have some meat on the table. They endured poverty, hunger, and want but they all grew up to be fine upstanding citizens. Two of the girls became nurses. My grandfather became a train engineer and worked for Alabama Power until he retired with a nice pension. Another brother became an executive for one of the steel mills in Birmingham (although he did live a rather shady double life for awhile). They endured their hardships and became better, stronger people for them.
Not so my daughter and her boyfriend and all the other malcontented young people. No, they have to whine and complain and demand their needs get met without contributing and if you ask them to do so much as lift a finger to keep the house they're living in running smoothly, then you're a bad mother. It's enough to make you want to Yankee swear.
But that's another post.
