Meeting the Folks - Part 2

When summer arrived after my second year at seminary, Mimi and I decided to head South so she could meet my family. I knew they would accept Mimi instantly, partly because she was intelligent, creative, and beautiful, but mostly because they were always thrilled whenever I could even manage to get a date. I also felt confident that Mimi would find the South charming and delightful, perhaps even insisting that we move to Tennessee after seminary and raise our children in “God’s Country.”

Careful readers of this blog will note that we still reside in California, which subsequent events on this trip may or may not explain. Our plan was to drive from the Memphis airport to my hometown, spend a few days with my mother, then drive down to Alabama to visit my father. Mom had moved into town from my rural childhood home a few years earlier, so the first order of business was to show Mimi the house I grew up in. Driving along the familiar country road, I delighted in pointing out places of special interest—like Mutt Williams’ garage, or the oak tree where I used to chew tobacco with my friend Ricky. Lost in this pleasant reverie, I didn’t notice the quizzical expression creeping across Mimi’s face.

“What’s the deal with the appliances?” she finally said, nipping my nostalgia in the bud.

“What appliances?”

“Well, rusted-out cars are bad enough, but why do people have old refrigerators and dishwashers in their yards?”

Though dumbfounded by this question, I tried to keep from adopting a condescending tone. “Well, they don’t work any more,” I pointed out gently.

“I gathered as much from the missing doors,” Mimi returned. “So why not haul them away?”

“Because there’s no sense going to all that trouble when there’s plenty of room in the yard. Besides, you never know when you might need to scavenge a part or two.”

“But what about property values? Don’t the neighbors complain?”

Clearly, Mimi had a lot to learn. Which neighbor was going to raise a fuss—the one with the two Kenmore freezers out front, or the owner of the 1964 Impala with grass growing out of the hood?

Things didn’t improve much during the rest of our tour, as it became apparent that an insurmountable communication barrier existed between Mimi and the citizens of my fair town. After two days of awkward attempts at conversation, Mimi’s frustration boiled over.

“I can only understand 80% of what these people are saying!” she fumed.

I wasn’t sure how she had arrived at that exact figure, but it struck me as a bit on the high side. So I took the opportunity to point out that my own accent—often the object of Mimi’s jests—was really rather mild, comparatively speaking.

“Maybe so,” she said, “but the longer we stay here, the worse your accent is getting.”

And we hadn’t even hit Alabama yet.