Folks are friendly, but I’m from Ukiah

Many things were veiled in mystery while we first contemplated moving from Northern California to North Carolina, and a big one for wife Trophy was food.

“Chitlins?” she said one day. “Jowls? Are jowls from hogs, like the chinnychin-chin part? Collard greens? Hush puppies?” Her voice would trail off and dissolve into whispers and groans. Trying to be helpful, I changed the subject.

“Don’t forget,” I said cheerfully, “the South is where NASCAR got its start, and the Dale Earnhardt Museum is just up the road. There are racetracks all over the place, so it’ll be like Friday nights at the Ukiah Fairgrounds except louder. Beer’ll probably be cheaper too.”

Faint comfort. I tried pointing out the swell climate and big gardens of the mid-south, the beautiful mansions, and that we could look forward to a slower, quieter pace of life.

“Slower than Ukiah?!?” she said. “Where are we going—-an old folks home? There aren’t any places slower than Ukiah,” she wailed.“are there?”

Someone told her about the chiggers, fire ants, snakes and reptiles. I saved the news about cockroaches to surprise her when we arrived, and she sure was. And together we learned local cockroaches are very large, and excellent fliers.

We were also fascinated at how long it takes to get a large flying cockroach out of your hair, especially if you keep shrieking and jumping and running away from people who are trying to help.

Next it was southern weather, and I reminded her that worries about tornadoes, hurricanes and crocodiles were imaginary fears, at least compared to California droughts, wildfires, hippies and Democrats.

It went on. Once you begin to contemplate moving, doubts and questions bubble up. No matter if it’s LA (“Seriously: Traffic jams at 3 a.m.?”) or Las Vegas (“Are you sure you can make a living betting on sports down there?”) or East Coma, Iowa (“It seems even slower than Ukiah. Is it an old folks home?”) nerves get rattled and the second-guessing begins.

Best advice: Mull things over, talk to some friends, consult retirement magazines and throw a dart at a map. Our dart hit North Carolina.

Your dart might miss the map altogether and stick in the sheetrock, or hit Fresno. Doovers are permitted. Eventually, armed with our suspicions, ignorance, half-truths and three suitcases, we moved into our new house on a new street in a new town. New things bewildered us at times, but always in good ways.

Yes, prices are lower no matter when you reach for your wallet, although Bidenomics could end that by the time you finish this column. Kidding, ha ha, mostly.

So yeah, gas and food and real estate are trending at fractions (big fractions in some categories, modest fractions in others) compared to California. So far weather has been milder than Ukiah’s but could reverse itself quicker than climate change predictions in a roomful of meteorologists.

But something else in the South is fundamentally different and won’t change any time soon, unless a lot more Californians invade. People here are nicer. They are friendlier. They are more open and cheerful and helpful.

Last Sunday was the annual holiday parade that mingles Thanksgiving with Christmas and simultaneously mingles numerous townships, high schools, churches, civic clubs, and vehicles. A week prior, a woman who lives alone on the corner came to our house and asked if we’d please come to her holiday parade celebration next Sunday. Why of course!

We were flattered. Maybe 50 people arrived at Ann’s old brick home to sit on folding chairs, porch steps or the curb, and watch marching bands, horse-drawn buggies, fire engines, pretty girls waving from convertibles, uniformed Veterans marching in formation with rifles slung, high school football teams and cheerleaders, little kids on flatbed trucks throwing candy at scampering dogs, and tractors pulling bales of hay piled high with bigger kids on top throwing more candy. It lasted over an an hour.

Trophy agreed the potluck at Ann’s was A-1 and as varied as any we’ve had in California, and that the chatter was easier, more fluid. No one talked politics. She cornered an Australian construction guy (with a Southern accent) who remodels old houses; a gay couple invited us to drop by their house and see examples of his work.

I spent a long time prying information from someone who (reluctantly) acknowledged being involved in surreptitious overnight auto racing from Florida through Georgia and into the Carolinas; prize money goes to families of slain police officers. It makes me want to ask Tom Liberatore to build me a souped-up T-bird in his Talmage garage.

So yeah, on the one hand people are friendlier and nicer, but on the other hand so what? I’m not, and moving to the south won’t change me, much. My personality is a social deterrent, and walking six blocks to inspect a neighbor’s kitchen remodel ain’t likely.

I’m fine living a semi-reclusive Ukiah-type existence, peeking between curtains at sidewalk passersby, avoiding much beyond “How ya doin’” when it comes to conversation, and happily paring back my Christmas card obligations a little more every season.