Hidden Roots; or, Suburbanized

Do you ever have days where you just don't feel Southern? When you're tooling along in your Accord or Villager, texting on the celly, with a song by some chick named Pink coming through the speakers? Then you pull into your white concrete driveway and look out over your little patch of well-manicured real estate (actually, mine isn't that well-manicured). Then you get on the laptop and catch up on the news, or check the radar. At bedtime, you switch off your brain as you watch some Yankee crack smarmy jokes.

Yeah, I feel that way a lot. Our neighborhood was built upon some ancient farmland, but that doesn't help me much. Urbanization is closing in on us, and there's no stopping it. So how can I – you – stay in touch with the inner redneck?

Listening to country music – the authentic kind, and I'm sorry, but Taylor Swift ain't – helps. I recommend Craig Morgan's "International Harvester," but if you think he's talking about his tractor's global appeal, your redneckedness might be hopelessly lost. You could also pop in a Jeff Foxworthy or Bill Engvall CD to remind you of just how big a hick you can be. Or, you could call up that cousin who still has a giant satellite dish in his back yard.

This has me pondering what Southerners used to do with their leisure time, if they had any. They probably read books, or walked through the woods, or whittled. What a great activity, whittling. I need to do it more often. I've no use for a sharp stick, but it's the act that's important and, I think, therapeutic.

Me, I've got that aforementioned non-redneck wife to remind me how redneck I am. Like every time I gnaw on a toothpick long after my teeth have been picked. Or whenever I drive like an angry Dale Jr. Or any time I take off my shirt and she mocks my farmer's tan.

Alas, I must go. Gotta log on to ESPN.com and watch baseball highlights.

Today's Redneck Moment: I got rather excited this morning when I got to interview the "other" Waltrip brother, Bobby.