This is way later than I had wanted to share this story, being almost a month after my family vacation, but better late than never. It all began one July morning, when a family from New Jersey, with a Dad who had lived in New York for 30 years, pulled into a gas station in North Carolina before making the first leg of the trip home.
We had just finished having a wonderful week celebrating Judy's parents 50th anniversary with all her siblings and their respective families. It was fun and very busy. Since most of our time was spent at the house where we were staying, we didn't get to interact too much with the locals, but when we did, they were some of the most pleasant people, just super cheerful. I started to understand the phrase, "southern hospitality," as all the people I met were genuinely hospitable and pleasant. That is except for one, which brings me back to the gas station.
The van was gassed up and ready to go, when a man in a Yankees shirt approached. Figuring he saw the Jersey plates and wanted to talk to a fellow Tri-State area guy, I chatted with him for a bit. He had moved from New York a number of years ago. Unfortunately, he spent half the time complaining about all the rednecks down there. Talk about an an all around grumpy, unpleasant person, who, while complaining about one stereotype, lived up to another...the snooty, damn Yankee!
I had put any thought of Snooty Yankee behind me about five seconds after driving out of the gas station and getting back on the road. We drove through North Carolina with little to no traffic and on into Virginia, where we were spending the night before resuming our trip home the next day. It was to have been about a five or six hour drive, but that changed when the van started overheating. I pulled over and checked under the hood, and even with my limited automotive knowledge, I could see the coolant was not only low, but empty. I let the van cool off a bit before trying to drive again, finally making it to another station and getting more coolant. After again letting the van cool off and topping off the coolant, we started back up again, lasting about ten minutes before the temperature shot up again. I so didn't need that...or maybe I did.
I pulled the van over again, checked, and the coolant was once again empty. While I was attempting to figure out what was wrong, a car with Virginia plates (we were in Virginia after all) pulled up in front of us. A very friendly gentleman with a pronounced drawl who introduced himself as Ronny asked us if everything was okay. I explained what happened, and without missing a beat he offered to take a look and see what was going on. As he checked under the van, I looked down and noticed on his belt a HUGE buckle with the word "REDNECK" on it in big letters. After he got out from under the van, he told me he couldn't see any leaking in the front, but he knew the owner of a nearby auto shop who could help us out. He led the way, while we slowly followed, and let the people there know to take good care of us.
Ronny Redneck left, and the repairmen, who were also some of the friendliest people you could ever hope to meet, got to work. After a while, they diagnosed the problem, a metal pipe or tube or whatever you call it (I know they used the correct terminology at the time) leading to the back of the van that had rusted and broken. The pipe carried, of all things, coolant, and that part would have taken a week to come in if we had them order it. When the pipe broke, the coolant completely poured out. Knowing we didn't have a week to wait around for a part, they offered a temporary solution, taking some tubing and clamping it on, which would prevent the coolant from leaking. Because it wouldn't run all the way to the back of the van, we wouldn't be able to run the heat in the back, but it being early July, we were pretty sure we weren't going to need the heat for a few months at least. It got us back on the road and for a lot less than what was originally going through my head when the van first began overheating.
What was supposed to be a five or six hour drive turned into eleven hours, but the wonderful people we met helped us not only get to where we were going, but also helped us keep our wits about us in a very stressful situation. I found myself looking back on the day and comparing in my head between Snooty Yankee and Redneck Ronny and his buddies, and I knew which one I'd rather have around in a pinch.
To my northern friends, this is not intended as a swipe against you. In my years in New York and New Jersey, I have met some wonderful people, and I would not trade them for the world. In addition, you will always have better pizza than the south, especially in New York. That's just a fact. But the conclusion I came to after my experience was that the world would be a much better place if we had more rednecks in it. Thanks for readin', and y'all come back now, ya hear?
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