LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Weekend Beach Bum: A Tale of Two Delawares - Northern and Southern |
by Eric Morrison |
"Where is your accent from? Alabama?" These were some of the first words I heard from my new University of Delaware friends after moving from the sleepy southern Delaware town of Bridgeville, to the bustling college town of Newark, back in 1992. My brain took a few moments to process the question. Then my jaw dropped to the floor, along with any hopes of forever escaping the ubiquitous southern Delaware stereotype. If you know the First State at all, you're probably familiar with the friendly rivalry between residents of northern and southern Delaware. "There's no life above the canal," quip elderly men who've spent their lives making a living off the land. "There's nothing down here but cornfields, chickens, and speed traps," observed my ex-boyfriend during his first long drive down Route 13. Delaware has been a bit split at least since the Civil War. The collective cultural mentality of southern Delaware leaned toward sympathy for the South, while more industry-minded northern Delawareans empathized with the North. Lincoln labored hard to win the support of the state and, finally, Delaware officially sided with the North. The first state to join the Union, they declared, would be the last state to abandon it. Anyone who makes the maddeningly straight, two and a half hour drive from the top to the bottom of the state, cannot help but notice the remarkable difference in lifestyle. Much of the difference can be accounted for simply by economic factors. Southern Delaware is in the business of agriculture. Northern Delaware relies largely on banking, higher education, and entertainment for its economic vitality. Not many farmers consider an evening at the theatre a treat, and few bankers enjoy crop dusting on their days off. Statistically, inhabitants of northern Delaware have more education, more liberal political leanings-and more stress-related illnesses-than their southern counterparts. That's where the rivalries and stereotypes start. Differences between "the two halves of Delaware" aren't solely economic and political. For someone who has lived for seventeen years below the canal and ten years above it, subtle cultural differences hold a surprising charm. Take, for instance, home furnishings. Many southern Delaware homes boast decorations reminiscent of local history-handmade pottery branded with the name of a town, photo albums stuffed with yellowing photographs of fire halls and grain mills, portfolios of deteriorating newspaper clippings detailing marriages, births, and deaths. Many refrigerators mirror my own mother's, their fronts crowded with magnets. ("To ring for the maid, press here. If the maid doesn't answer, do it yourself.") My father's pride and joy plasters the walls of my childhood home-a huge deer's head in the living room, affectionately nicknamed Doofus by my mother, two smaller deer scalps hanging on either side of my parents' bed, and the piece de resistance, a gun rack above the TV, with two upturned deer hooves tenderly holding my great-grandfather's shotgun. Wooden furniture, paneling, and throw rugs everywhere. Besides home furnishings, the language of southern Delaware resonates with the area's unique charm. Margaret Mead would have needed a translator to dialog with many older, long-time residents. I fondly recall many of my deceased grandmother's southern Delawareanisms. "Are 'mong y'all coming with?" she would ask in her throaty drawl, or, "J'eat yit?" Every spring, I was full to the gills with excitement when the tree in her backyard began to drop its nuts and the family gathered to pick up peekins (pecans). Even today, I get a kick out of throwing a classic southern Delaware expression into my daily diatribes. "I'm madder than a wet hen," I declare after a telephone conversation with an exasperating client. "It's six on one, half a dozen on the other," I advise my ambivalent friend. After a trip to the dentist, I complain aloud, "Lands, my tooth hurts somethin' awful." During last year's Thanksgiving trip to my parents' house, I was reminded of just how different a world I once inhabited. Finally taking family advice not to slave over a hot stove all day, my mother agreed to eat out for Turkey Day. Instead, I spent two hours gorging myself at an all-you-can-eat "mom and pop" restaurant. I found an unexpected array of vegetarian options-candied yams, mustard and turnip greens, corn pudding, mashed potatoes (happily, with lumps), and home-style stuffing. (I thought I detected a hint of turkey flavor amongst the breadcrumbs, onions, and spices, but I acquiesced.) Even if customs and technology are a little backward, as some northerners claim, so are the prices. The Thanksgiving smorgasbord was a measly $9.95, you can still purchase a good box of cereal for under $4.00, and my high school best friend just mortgaged a brand new, two-story house with a huge backyard for a monthly payment less than that for my one-bedroom apartment. But whenever I start to turn green thinking about the quiet nights, the slow pace, and the low prices of my old stomping grounds, I remember why I love my life in northern Delaware. I'm a hop, skip, and a jump away from the electric nightlife of Wilmington, Philly, D.C., and New York. I don't have to drive forty-five minutes to the nearest shopping mall. Quality theatre, ethnic foods, and pulsating dance music are close at hand. I may not live in a two-story house, but I love my cozy one-bedroom apartment, sans animal parts, full of funky furniture, colorful art, and silver glass-top tables. I can be myself here. I can always find something other than a salad on a restaurant menu, and I can walk through the Waterfront holding hands with my boyfriend. I'm proud of my southern Delaware roots, even if I do keep my kitchen trash can in the cabinet under the sink. (A friend once assured me this is tres southern Delaware.) It's been a couple of years, but maybe in 2002, I'll visit my hometown's annual Apple/Scrapple Festival. I'll drive sanguinely past the sign welcoming me into Bridgeville, reminding me that if I lived there, "I'd be home now." A little part of me still is. Occasionally, Eric still gets sentimental about his "slower lower" roots, and he still loves to sleep in his childhood bed. You can reach him via e-mail at eric.a.morrison@verizon.net. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 12, No. 05, May 17, 2002. |