I am now a Son of the South. I do not hunt. I do not fish. I do not even play golf. I am an English professor for Pete's sake which means that I fit a certain stereotype. I like to read a lot. I write novels. I have weird neckties that I sometimes wear. None of these things qualifies me to consider myself now a bona fide, yet transplanted, Son of the South. So what does qualify me? This: I have an old pickup truck on blocks! My Lord, I feel so accepted now, after decades of living in Dixie, I have come of age. It didn't take a dog fight, moonshine (no comment), or even my own special road kill barbecue recipe.
It was having that truck up on blocks.
I came out one morning and the truck was leaning a tad to port, so took a look and there it was - a flat tire. I needed to fix it, but the jack I had to use was for our Altima, and it didn't lift the truck high enough for me to take off the tire. So, I got a big block of wood and put the jack on top of that and jacked that old pickup higher and higher until I could remove the tire. then I took the tire in and picked it up two days later and put it back on the truck.
My old pickup was up on the block only a couple of days, but I'm counting it, even though it wasn't on cinderblocks, or even in the front yard. Son of the South? That's me!