More than a few years ago, a friend of mine moved, family and accent in tow, to the suburbs of Detroit, Michigan

More than a few years ago, a friend of mine moved, family and accent in tow, to the suburbs of Detroit, Michigan, inevitably quite the culture shock for someone who had etched out a life in a small southern town near the banks of the Cumberland River.  Years before, in the employ of the state parks, I met a lady from Indiana, who had married a Kentuckian and moved to the commonwealth.  By the time I met her, she had lived in the South for 25 years, and every day, she said, someone still asked, “where are you from?”  The reverse also is true.  When I spoke to my Michigan-based friend a few days ago, she told me a story about going to buy ice at a convenient store, which resulted in unusual antics.  The clerk, she recounted, looked at her funny and then began to laugh.  Let’s just say, the southern pronunciation of “ice” rings little different than a profane term for derriere in Michigan.It’s those long southern vowels that get you.  Anyone from the South will know the tale.

Of this I can be sure – my aunt being the 1956 May Day Queen – it’s difficult to find familiar ground between a major city known as Motor and a town that once crowned a spring queen, while children, including my mother, danced the Maypole wearing pastels and ribbons in their hair, not to mention a full fledged court, reminiscent of an early Crillon Ball at the Palace of Versailles, curtsied on main street to the newly annointed Miss McCreary County.  This was particularly true during the county’s semi-centennial year, but not at all left strictly to 1962. My sister was greeted, again, with curtsies and bows, even into the 1990s, when crowned, not spring, but fall queen.  Despite a propensity for car dealerships, some quite historic, the only motor in Whitley City was likely to be ridden on through parades, even if, from time to time, they might blast the familiar sounds of Motown. It’s a far cry from Detroit.

Recently, I saw a quote, “there are no foreign lands, just foreign people.”  When I was growing up, there was a real pizzazz to life, stocked full of traditions and subtle, sometimes monogrammed, customs, which might well be deemed foreign to welcomed visitors; a lot of them transients who now call Whitley City home.  So, while my friend adjusts to life up North, there are equal amounts coming from all directions, leaving their impact on small towns around the country.  The old adage might well prove true, “it takes a village.” It’s a lesson America might embrace, too, on big scales and small.  Though we may have forgotten it, there are times when our differences really are our strengths.