Dang Yankee The
By Mike McHugh
Howdy, Neighbors! Greetings, fellow citizens of Southwest Louisiana! I am, as the title implies, a Dang Yankee. I’m sure that you’re familiar with this term. It sure didn’t take long for me to be made aware of it after arriving here from the North Country. (And no, it doesn’t have anything to do with a baseball player and the devil.) Let me explain just to be sure we’re on the same page. The Dang Yankee is the kind who comes here and doesn’t go back. I at least partially resemble that remark. See, I’m really not considered by other Northerners to be a pedigreed Yankee, since I’m actually from a “bor-
der state.” What’s a border state, you ask? It’s simply where you’re not actually in Yankee land, but you can see it from your house. I am from the southern side of the Mason-Dixon Line, which I’m told is the official border between North and South. I really don’t know who came up with that definition or under what authority. He must have been either some snob on the north side who was trying to make being a Yankee something more exclusive, or it was somebody from the south side who didn’t want to be associated with the folks on the north side. Well, now that you know a little
Bessette Realty, Inc. Phil and Lauren, you have given me the perfect tool for relocation. I have wished for a way to express the personality of Southwest Louisiana for years. The warmth, charm, and caring of our people for one another is not easily conveyed in a few words. The beauty of our area, the cultural richness and the zest of our food and humor abound in the pages of your magazine. The Jambalaya News captures all of these features within its covers and serves it up as spicy as the dish for which it takes its name. Congratulations on a job superbly done. This will be an integral part of my relocation kits from now on. — Derenda Grubb - CENTURY 21 Bessette Realty, Inc. (337) 842-2696 • www.derenda.com
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MAY 7, 2009
about me, here’s why I’m writing this column. You see, this new paper here in town just happens to be published by a couple who are themselves Dang Yankees (and real ones at that, unlike yours truly). So, l figured they’d be keen on the idea of a column reflecting on life here in Southwest Louisiana from the perspective of Northern transplants like ourselves. After all, we share the sentiment that life can’t get much better than it is in this neck of the woods. It abounds in resources and has got the friendliest, most funloving people around. You can’t beat that combination, can you? I came here about six years ago, and I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive at first. Before I left my perch with the splendid view of Yankee land, everything I knew about Louisiana at the time was from a few former coworkers who’d visited. And they weren’t real, uh, positive. Of course, both of them are just the plain old kind of Yankees who came and went back. The first one described his experience in Louisiana as being completely alien, and likened it to being on the moon. (Well, I always did think this guy could have made a good extra on Men in Black.) When I asked him why he felt so out of place, he said, “Well, I found out that they only have one Rainforest Cafe in the entire state- and they opened it up only a few months ago.” Hah, let him have his Rainforest Cafes. Who needs ‘em when you’ve got Steamboat Bill’s? The other co-worker actually lived in Baton Rouge a whole few months— then he, too, went back. Man, I thought he was a real expert on the subject of Louisiana life—especially when he gave me a lecture about the five scourges of Louisiana. (The five scourges would take an entire article to go into, so let’s leave them for later.) The short story is, he was full of it. Needless to say, I didn’t pay much heed to those two guys. Now, let’s get to the subject at hand. I’ll start with the weather, since that’s how about 90 percent of all conversations get started. One thing that struck me right away about the folks here is how proud you all seem to be about your summers. I mean proud in the same way as an old soldier is proud of his war wound. When I first came here, everyone was asking me how I liked the weather. It was February. The first thing I did was take the ice scraper out of the glove box and crush it under the heel of my shoe. That seemed to horrify some people. “Man,” they’d say to me. “You should have kept that! You know we had an ice storm here back in 1997.” “Yeah,” I’d reply. “Well, we had one
back home last Thursday.” As it turned out, these inquiries were meant just to set me up. Inevitably, they’d follow with, “Yeah, well you ought to wait until summer comes down here! Man, you ain’t gonna’ be able to take these summers! We got a hunn’erd-degree temperatures and a hunn’erd and ten percent humidity! Man, come July, you’re gonna’ wanna’ tuck your tail between your legs and get on back to where you came from.” Now, what folks here don’t seem to get is that, since I’m not actually from Yankee land, we had some pretty toasty summers ourselves. I felt like I’d been there and done that. The prevalent opinion around here seems to be, if you are from anywhere north of, say, Shreveport, you may as well be in Siberia as far as the climate is concerned. Me, I’ll take a hunnerd an’ ten percent humidity and needing an ice scraper once every ten years. Northerners , they justify their miserable winters by saying, “Well, you can always put more clothes on, but you can only take so many off.” Now, what kind of lame statement is that? It’s like saying it’s good to be unemployed because you don’t have to worry about what to wear to work. I mean, who likes having to wear a parka over a turtleneck sweater over a pair of long johns? You can’t even move in that stuff! The other thing that struck me right off was how friendly people are. I first noticed this when I was in the car with my realtor on a house-hunting trip. We’re driving along, and we passed somebody who stopped and waved to us. “Who was that?” I asked. “Don’t know,” she replied. “Never seen him before.” “But he just waved to us,” I pointed out. “Oh, people around here do that all the time,” she shrugged. “Wow!” I thought. People waving at strangers just to be friendly! What a concept! If somebody did that back north, you’re liable to think he’s flagging you down so he can try to steal your car. By now, I believe myself to be pretty much acclimated to Louisiana life. I know this for sure because I no longer think the people here speak with an accent. Instead, my family back home thinks I have an accent. Here’s looking forward to sharing more ruminations about life here among the live oaks and alligators with all of you. Mike McHugh is an engineer at Sasol North America, Inc. in Westlake. He and his wife Susan hail from the "border" state of Maryland. TJN Volume 1 • Issue 3