Where Y’all From?

“Where y’all from?” the pleasant young man said as he leaned out the drive-up window at Zaxby’s.

“We’re from South Dakota,” I answered as he took my credit card.

“How’d y’all come to be here’n Georgia?”

“We’re just visiting my sister. She lives here.” I smiled at this pleasant interrogation as he handed out the bag with sandwich and fries.

“She has an apartment in her basement she lets us stay in,” my wife volunteered.

“Y’all don’t say. That’s sure nice of her. Well, y’all have a nice day.” It wasn’t a brush-off but was a polite way of asking us to move on along.

As I pulled ahead my wife said, “Where’s my Diet Coke?”

Sure enough, that vital ingredient was missing from what was handed out the window. I pulled the car over and got out to walk back to the window. Over the top of the next car, now pulled up to the drive-up window I said, “Did you have a diet coke for us?”

He grinned sheepishly. As the car between us pulled away he said, “It’s right here, sir. I just got so interested in figurin’ out you folks’ accent that I forgot to give it to y’all.”

As I slid back into the car, handing my wife the Coke, it struck me—he thought I had an accent! How odd. It was all these people here in Georgia that had the accents. That lilting southern drawl that is so pleasant. I’m from the Midwest. Our way of speaking is the dominant pattern for media across the country. But for a young man making his way in life from a Zaxby’s drive-up window, yes, I suppose I do have an accent. It was a new perspective for me.

Gaining new perspectives is exactly the reason my wife and I are midwestern nomads. The midwestern culture has imprinted itself indelibly on us. We take it with us wherever we go as the experience at Zaxby’s so clearly illustrates. We filter new experiences through whom we have become, which is profoundly shaped by where we live, the people we know, and the families that claim us. So, no matter how nomadic we become, we remain midwestern but perhaps we can become something more.

This story starts less than a month ago when we sold our home in Sioux Falls. Yes, the housing market was good, but the reason for selling was to be free of homeownership to enable a mobile lifestyle. We had rejected the prosaic motorhome solution. It seemed to be another kind of encumbrance, and we didn’t want camping to dominate our wanderlust. Like the ancient nomads, we had specific places we wanted to go. Also, like them, we wanted to move from spot to spot in a seasonal cycle to accommodate our needs. And boy, without a home, we had needs!

No, we are not so foolish as to think that being homeless is a good long-term plan. There’s a condo in our future, back in our beloved Sioux Falls, but it won’t be available for six months. It’s a good thing we have family who loves us and are willing to offer us extended visits. Sometimes we joke that we are couch-surfing with our children, a sort of reverse boomerang. It’s sobering how close to the truth that jest is. But so far, we’ve been so graciously received that we feel humbled by how well this is working.

First, we spent a couple of weeks in Portland, North Dakota, following the closing on our house. Yes, there really is a town with that name in North Dakota. And no, there is not a significant body of water anywhere nearby. I am told that the town was named because it is approximately halfway between Portland, Maine, and Portland, Oregon. It might be only folks in the fly-over states who find this amusing, but I always smile as I drive into town.

My daughter lives in that land of corn, soybeans, and sugar beets with her patient husband and three sons. My wife and I were in grandchild bliss during our stay in their lovely ranch-style home. We became intimately acquainted with the ways of a ten-year-old, a five-year-old, and a terrible something-or-the-other. I’ve come to believe the age of two is just a warmup for adolescence. We also got a close-up introduction to their new puppy, their two gerbils, and their fish. Do you see why I think my son-in-law is patient?

Following Thanksgiving weekend, we crammed an unbelievable load of stuff into the back of our Chevy Equinox and headed southeast with Georgia on our minds. But first, we wandered down to northeastern Kansas to see my brother. Even though we mentioned our new couch-surfing lifestyle, they kindly gave us a bed to sleep in. After a pleasant extra day looking over my brother’s current projects, we took to the road again.

All would have been well if we’d simply stuck to our GPS’s prescribed route, but the hair-raising passage through Kansas City, depending on terrible roadway signage constantly obscured by a rampaging wall of semi-trucks, was traumatizing. So, we elected to make our way off the freeway onto peaceful country roads along what looked to be a shortcut. As most people know, there are no shortcuts in Missouri. Longcuts abound, however, and we found most of them in our prolonged journey from Kansas to Kentucky, where we planned to stay the night. The evening darkness came quite early on the eastern edge of the central time zone, making the latter part of our trip especially interesting. This was exacerbated a bit by our insane GPS that kept directing us through thick riverside fog along what seemed to be barely paved cow paths. Having neglected our customary practice of filling up at half a tank added some extra spice as our fuel level seemed to plummet below a quarter without a gas station anywhere in sight. Fortunately, this story’s dénouement is no more interesting than a very late supper. But the next day saw us traveling only along major freeways through mobile caverns of wall-to-wall trucking. I suppose we were doing our part for the supply chain crisis.

Just as we entered Georgia, our cell phones signaled a fateful message from the South Korean Consulate. To our dismay, we had been denied the quarantine exemption we’d applied for in hopes of visiting our son’s family in Seoul. Thank you, omicron variant! We have not seen that part of our family for the better part of three years due to the pandemic. Now our very expensive plane tickets had to be canceled, replaced by the vague hope that we can get to Korea sometime before the ticket credit expires next October. So much for that destination in our nomadic itinerary.

So, we landed at my sister’s welcoming home near Watkinsville, Georgia, with our plans in shambles. Several years back, she and her husband built their new house with two walk-out basement apartments. Originally, these were where our parents and aunt lived. Since both our parents and aunt have died, my sister has used the apartments to generously provide housing for people in need. As I mentioned earlier, we now fit neatly into the “in need” category. So, for the moment, have a little home in Georgia.

Our original plan was to reconnoiter for a couple of weeks and then fly from Atlanta to South Korea. This worked perfectly for the apartment which my sister had promised to someone else for the latter part of December. But when our plans fell through, we had to do a little scrambling. My daughter quickly stepped in to invite us back to Portland (the one in North Dakota) for Christmas. My wife put her foot down about another road trip. I can’t imagine why. So, now we have more airline tickets to get us back to grandson heaven unless the North Dakota Consulate somehow steps in to foil our plans. I just googled the North Dakota Consulate in Atlanta and evidently, it doesn’t exist. What a relief.

This, at last, brings us back to Zaxby’s and the pleasant young man at the drive-up window. Before I had an opportunity to reflect on the question, “Where y’all from?” I reflexively answered, “South Dakota.” But on second thought I realize that there is no location in South Dakota where I can hang my hat. It’s truly an odd feeling. I wonder if this is how the ancient nomads felt. Culturally I remain truly midwestern, as my glaring accent attests. But the only answer I can truthfully come up with to the question, “Where ya’ll from?” is, “It’s complicated.”