Just have to say, I love southerners. Real, true, “southren” people, I mean. Like the lovely lady manning the coffee station here this morning. Picture me, bleary eyed and disheveled, in desperate need of my morning injection of caffeine. Picture her, slender and well dressed in a black sweater set and camel colored slacks, every hair of her grey bob perfectly in place.
“How y’all doin’ this mawnin?” she greeted me, the gentle modulations of her southern accent soothing and soft.
I succumbed to her friendly patter, and was treated to a five minute discourse (all in those dulcet tones) about her recent experience with a root canal, and how she “went round” to the dentist yesterday and he was “just purely wonderful” and took care of everything.
“Well, y’all have a safe trip now,” she said, pouring my coffee for me, and sending me on my way with a warm smile.
“Thank you so much,” I replied, inadvertently replacing my midwestern twang with the barest hint of a drawl.
And all this at 7:00 in the morning.
I love southerners.