Wednesday, January 28, 2004

The lines are being drawn for this Sunday’s war

Dear Northern and Southern relatives:

There’s battle lines being drawn, somewhere in Maryland, splitting my extended family North and South. On one side those victorious Super Bowl veterans of past battles, the New England Patriots. On the other side we have the (hell no we ain’t fergetten) upstarts, the Carolina Panthers.

There’s something happening here.

Now I’m surely not a consummate sports fan. My Connecticut cousin Anthony always thought I was a bit strange wanting to watch the weather report when there was a decent game on the other channel. Occasionally, events of significant import do catch my attention (still a bit chilly up North, I hear) and this battle of the brawn is surely more than a continuing clash of regional rivalries.

What it is ain’t exactly clear.

You see I’m dealing with a quandary: Which side I’m on.

Sometimes those cold blue skies give way to gray, fluffy clouds. (Didn’t a fellow named Lee once struggle with a similar quandary?)

My heartstrings are tugging me homeward to the land of my Northern birth but the righteousness of the cause, the fate of the underdog and the land that God surely smiles upon beckons me Southward.

My son Steven once said the reason we moved to North Carolina back in the ‘90s was to pick up his little sister Renee (born in N.C.) before moving back to Georgia. (Isn’t Renee a Southern kind of name?)

While [we were] living in N.C., the Panthers began to claw their way to the top and a neighbor took a couple of my kids to the first Panther’s home game. Oh, those ties that bind. I do declare I hears somethin’ prowling round back.

What a field day for the heat.

One fellow said this clash of titans is to be played somewhere in Texas. Weather should be nice, balmy, if not downright hot, compared to those cool New England nights. Wonder if the Patriots are up to dealing with that good ole Southern hospitality?

Renee is such a sweet thing, such a comely child. A real Southern belle. When she has a need she can pour on that Southern charm like sweet New England maple syrup over a bowl of grits.

Oh, that child surely can purr and other times she can be as stubborn as a tar heel. I can hear her Rebel Yell now: “Go cats go! We’re number one! Go cats go! We’re number one!”

Now my daddy says those Patriots are going to make an endangered species out of the Panthers and my daddy is usually right. Perhaps the South will never rise again. Yet you can’t keep a good dog (cat?) down forever.

Yep, I think those battle lines are being drawn (in my mind at least) and in my mind I’m going to Carolina. ‘Nuff of this rambling. Me’s got some cotton needin’ pickin’.

Your Georgian cousin/brother

Robert

Dear cousin Robert,

You all have too much time on your hands. As for the Super Bowl, Northerners are so much more pleasant when their team wins. Given that we do not have those inbred genteel Southern manners we need a reason to be nice. I can handle the Panthers fans. It is the Yankee fans in the family that bother me.

Your cousin from Massachusetts

Martha

Dear Cousin Robert

Southern man, better keep your head,

Don’t forget what the bookies said.

Southern game gonna come at last,

Ice and snow are in the past.

In 1763, two British astronomers, Mason and Dixon, strolled east-west along part of the 39-degrees-43-minutes north line of latitude and observed that certain Cats do not pass that line. It was also said that in future years that line might be referred to as the 50-yard line and Cats would still not pass and that certain New Englanders may be forced to pass that line someday to get the Cats.

As cousin Martha said, up until the Cats became a threat to both Pilgrim and Protestant, New Englanders had considered those Southerners from N.Y. known as the Yankees their most formidable foe and many a good New England frontiersman have been entrenched in a border war their entire lives with a well-funded Yankee mercenary invasion army with propaganda that has corrupted some of their young.

Now we are to be engaged in a great battle testing whether this dynasty can long endure. Many a man has ventured, few have returned. Go Pats, and watch out for those Cats.

Your Connecticut cousin

Anthony

Brothaaah Robert,

I believe y’all made the raaght choice. Why those li’l’ ole Pantha’s cain’t do nothin but win that li’l’ ole ball game. Y’all wouldn’t believe the wildness gon’ on in Nawth Carlina. I jest cain’t wait faa Supa Bowl Sunday.

Your North Carolinian sister

Betty

Sister Betty, Brother Robert!

I’m not surprised at all! Your capitulation to the pressures of Southern living (how’s that for a mutually exclusive phrase) was expected. What, with Renee’s Southern drawl, the incessant whiney lamentation of Southerners for a second chance (is that what they call a Rebel yell?), the Confederate battle flag as a constant reminder to take a stand, you really didn’t have a choice. Perhaps, as a Southern lady and gent you were concerned that, had you succumbed to the true blue deep inside of you, your Southern neighbors may be offended. Sweet Southern manners, a double-edged sword. At worst they may have labeled you a rebel, a deserter of the cause. So what. Oh, how quickly we forget.

Less our Northern kin get the wrong impression about us wayward transplants down Georgia way, not all of us are prone to pat the cat’s fur. For starters, I’m allergic to cats. And, as an indication of ignorance of sports, only through your recent e-mails on this topic did I become aware that N.C. had a professional football team!

Which reminds me of something that happened to Auntie Martha. Once, long, long ago, far, far away, north of the M-D line the church bells started ringing, the sirens started blaring, people filled the streets. With twin baby boys in arm, toddler daughter and son in tow, she ventured out.

What’s the buzz? Tell me what’s a happening? Don’t you know? The Korean War is over! Get outa here, I didn’t know a war was going on? Where have I been all these years?

Battle lines are being drawn ...

I digress. Bro, Sis, y’all get back to pickn’, I going witch hunt’n’.

Brother Richard

Tyrone, Ga.