As I have previously established, I love the South. Moreover, I am a Southerner through and through, proud of it, and would not want to be anything else—not a Midwesterner; Westerner; New Englander; Pacific Coaster (Is that what they call themselves? If so, it sounds like something a Southerner would use to keep a cold beer from leaving rings on the coffee table in front of the TV in the doublewide); or, God forbid, a Northerner. But, as I have said before, what’s not to love about the South? The South, after all, has an ideal climate; friendly, although admittedly often eccentric people; out-of-this-world cuisine; and a colorful language that’s unparalleled anyplace else in the entire United States. And that is why people who leave the South always return—always. They simply cannot get the South out of their blood. Take my brother, Bud, for example. (He’s given name is Alton, but to the family, he has always been and will remain Bud, which often creates confusion in social situations involving family and non-family.)

Just yesterday I was talking with Bud on the telephone. He is currently stranded in El Paso, Texas in his RV (something broke), along with his wife, Marty, and dog, Nicky, (Nicky is a Lab, which is the best kind of dog for a Southerner to own). They are headed to California, where they intend to visit Marty’s son and grandchildren, after which they will head to Idaho, where Bud says they are going to settle down for their “golden years,” given Marty wants to reside near her mother, who although a former Californian, now dwells somewhere in the middle of Idaho.

What Marty doesn’t yet know (they’ve only been married a short while) but will soon learn is that you cannot take a Southerner and transplant him or her into foreign soil, especially not soil as foreign as that found in a place like Idaho. It simply isn’t possible. Besides, before Marty, bless her little heart, decided to yank my brother up by his roots, she should have talked with his ex-wives. They would have told her that attempting to transplant my brother from the South to any other place in this entire country is comparable to jerking a sprout of kudzu out of the Georgia red dirt and then trying to force it to take root in a snow bank in Alaska, on a rocky crag in Montana, or on a sandy beach in Hawaii. And my brother’s ex-wives should know. After all, during his previous marriages, he was transplanted several times. But it never lasted, for he soon began longing for things like listening to the crickets, cicadas, and frogs singing a melody in the blackberry thickets; driving winding, rut-filled red-clay roads in his pickup truck while snacking on boiled peanuts; eating Moon Pies and sipping Orange Crush sodas at the corner store as he swapped yarns with the proprietor and old men in coveralls; fishing for bass in a Georgia lake on a lazy summer afternoon; hearing folks say, “Howdy,” and “Ya’ll come back now;” smelling that particular potpourri of scents particular to the South, one composed of honeysuckle, sweet shrub, kudzu, and pine needles; and feeling the soft Southern evening breeze caress his sweat-drenched face.

There’s an old saying, “You can take a woman outta the country, but you can’t take the country outta a woman” (I don’t know who originally said that, but it makes sense). Well, my point is, when it comes to the South, “You can take a Southerner outta the South, but, honey, you sure ain’t gonna keep ‘im there.” And that, my friends, is the truth. Just ask my brother’s ex-wives.