I’ve lived in Rochester, one of the three largest cities in New York State, all my life, and I’ll always celebrate it. It was a great place to grow up in.

My New Home

Before I moved to Tennessee, I thought Appalachia was a part of the South that was full of hillbillies, as in JD Vance’s book, Hillbilly Elegy. People lived in “hollers” and settled arguments with guns.

But now I live in a city in Appalachia, with a population less than my hometown of Greece, a suburb just north of Rochester.

Turns out, Appalachia covers Tennessee, Kentucky, West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia…and depending on the definition, also parts of Ohio, Pennsylvania, Alabama, South Carolina, and Maryland.

It’s definitely not the quaint part of America I thought it was! And I love it. The land beyond the larger cities is wild and rugged, and it’s a joy to drive through it. Most people are friendly and won’t hesitate to help a stranger.

And I’ve learned a few things since I arrived over a year ago.

Southern Ways

If someone says, “Bless your heart”…. run. I’m exaggerating, of course. Usually it goes something like this: “She’s a terrible housekeeper and her children run wild… Bless her heart.” I’m been saying “bless your heart” for years. Now I add, “I mean it in the northern sense.” They just chuckle at me.

If you think that fellow with the beard and cowboy hat, and wearing bibbed overalls, is a “good old boy,” he’s probably got a PhD.

I still have shivers remembering the long lines in Greece’s Department of Motor Vehicles just to get to the first clerk. Once I said what I wanted, the clerk would hand me a number. Then I would wait for my number to turn up on a screen to go to the next clerk.

So this month I need to re-register my car. I’m going to the County Clerk’s Office located on a rural highway, park near the door and enter. Once in, I’ll approach the clerk and sit in the chair at the counter opposite her, and complete my business.

You can mention God or Jesus out loud and people will smile at you or say “Amen.” The Water Authority was closed on Good Friday. I counted 14 churches in the eight miles between my home and church.

There’s tons of culture—highfalutin’ or native. There are people here who make dulcimers, violins, lutes, and guitars by hand. Music from opera to bluegrass, artists on canvas or who carve bears out of tree stumps… all talented folks who make their art easily accessible.

Yesterday, I attended the play, Walking Across Egypt, which was worthy of its rave reviews. Our Cumberland Playhouse has a large theater and a smaller one. The play filled the small theater and was introduced by a casually dressed gentleman. He gave a shout-out to two patrons who were celebrating their 50^th wedding anniversary. He then greeted the folks from the local Baptist church, who cheered him on. And then I was lost in a well-performed, heart-warming morality play that brought people to their feet at the end.

I don’t hear a lot of cuss words here. But maybe you don’t need to say them if you’re blessing everyone’s heart.

Speed limits here aren’t recommendations. They’re downright Biblical…as I discovered the hard way.

At any point, a highway may turn from a wide, two or four-lane stretch of pavement to a narrow two-lane strip that rises up, dips down, with corkscrew turns without guardrails. No one in their right mind would drive it over 30 miles an hour, tops. But as I drive on it, I enjoy scenery not impeded by zoning laws. I pass an imposing estate surrounded by acres of land, next to a shack with old household items falling off the porch and trucks rising from the lawn, next to a small church, followed by a small engine repair shop.

And you know? It’s all good.

But my biggest challenge is ditching my Type A, over-achieving approach to life. I’m learning to say “no,” or “later,” and it’s okay. Taking time out to just savor my new home is beginning to feel just fine.

I’m liking this  Southern style.