Southern Hospitality and my date with Moonshine

By Troy Foster

There are a lot of things about southerners I didn’t know.

We connected with my close friend Emily in Asheville, North Carolina. Emily and I were classmates this past year at the University of Montana, where I’m getting a master’s degree in business administration.

Emily has now joined us for several days of this baseball road trip, and that’s fine by me. We lost our third crew member, Nolan Rice, earlier in the trip, and she has picked up where the other Rice left off. Only this Rice is much more attractive.

Emily took us to the Atlanta game to watch her favorite team get blown away 16-5 and her favorite manager get thrown out for the 141st time, but that’s not what I’m here to write about. 

To us, Emily’s way of talking might be described as “straight out of the woods,” to borrow a term my traveling companion often says. She has a southern drawl that I’m certain has strengthened since I last saw her three months ago. It might be because she’s returned to the South, or maybe because her father has been making her practice it again. He’s been on her case about the way it’s been watered down living West. 

Our basecrawl would not be possible without the generosity and hospitality so many people have provided. Our time in the south has underscored this. After spending one night in North Carolina, Emily escorted us to her parents house in Dahlonega, Georgia, where Marshall and Maureen Rice put us up at “Rice Ridge” for two nights, handed over the keys to their party barn and taught us a few things about Southern hospitality.

Not only have we learned new dialect, I’ve been told my way of speaking is off, YA’ALL!

For instance, when I told the people around me “dinner’s ready,” Emily’s PAPA told me in no uncertain terms: “It’s not dinner, Troy, it’s SUPPER!”

When Emily speaks to her father, she says “Yes sir.” It’s “Yes ma’am” for mom.

Emily’s mom and dad have a pool here, too. But if you enunciate the “l” in pool, you’re not welcome to get in it. As Marshal says: “It’s poou …” 

And then there’s this whole Coke thing. The word “Coke” is synonymous with soda, even if it’s 7-Up or Mountain Dew. You say, “Can I have a Coke,” and southerners in this part of Georgia respond, “What kind?”

There are a lot of other things about the deep south that weird me out. One is the size of the bugs. I saw the biggest spider I’ve ever seen in my life and will never sleep well again. Not two minutes later I got clobbered in the back by a moth that was as big as a bird.

Then there’s the whole curse of Mr. Littlefield. He haunts a nearby house on Rice Ridge, and that’s all I can tell you now until our video pod on Atlanta comes out. We were stretching.

Dancing is a spectacle all to its own. You have to wear a silly hat … at least when you’re dancing in the Party Barn on Rice Ridge. You can be a Rahsta Man, you can wear a dairy hat, a horse head or you can be captain of the Love Boat. You can even pretend you’re a golfer from Ireland.

And then there’s this thing called Moonshine. If you’re not paying close attention, we’ve occasionally had a beer or two on this basecrawl, but we met our match in Dahlonega. I’d like to think I’m not a stupid, slobbering fool when I’ve had a drink or two. I don’t pass out and I don’t throw up.

But Marshall made us “kiss” this corn-liquor thing they call Moonshine. I’ve been slapped before, but YA’ALL need to listen carefully to what I’m about to say:

This is the first time I’ve ever attempted a kiss and been punched in the face.

(There’s more on this and our other adventures at BaseCrawl.com.)