A need to clean out a three-year-old storage unit led me on a recent sojourn to Massachusetts, a trip I regarded with a trace of trepidation. Knowing that Waffle Houses enter sudden death upon crossing over into the north, and preferring them to IHOPs, which proliferate with a rabbit’s race of reproduction, I made certain to dine at an aforesaid waffle diner before departing Virginia. My meal of course included sweet tea, a biscuit, and grits, as none of these survive as staples in the state I originally hail from.
After a relatively drama-free two weeks I returned to Mississippi, car heavy but heart light as I was now storage empty and my endeavor to relinquish the reigns of nostalgia and memorabilia binding me to the past (and costing me $70 a month) had been successful. No sooner had I crossed the Mason-Dixon Line when I saw the first highway notification of an upcoming Waffle House alerting me to the fact that I was back in the south where I like it. A Cheshire cat grin spread across my face upon seeing the sign reading “Miss State Line 4,” a grin that reappeared four miles later when I was welcomed to the birthplace of America’s music.
My welcome home food from a friend of fried chicken from the gas station was a reminder of how I’ve changed and who I’ve become since I first displaced myself to Mississippi. Nearly three years later, with my person and all my belongings solely residing, indefinitely, here in Lafayette County, I may be a misplaced Yankee, but no longer am I a Visiting Yankee.
