Crossing the Mason Dixon Line

I did something last Friday I am not proud of. I don't like to talk about it but I feel like I need to.

See, I crossed the Mason Dixon Line...

Katie, my copilot for the trip and resident expert on Montanan culture, did not seem to understand why I was so upset when I crossed into Pennsylvania. She also didn't seem to understand why I started singing Dixie... She also did not understand my reference to the Stars and Bars or why I teared up while driving through Gettysburg, mourning Robert Lee's only great loss.

As I rode along US 15 into the heart of Union country, I had an epiphany - the Mason Dixon Line is my security blanket. It was that thing that always made me feel safe and at home. Like Linus, it was always there wherever I went.

This was the first time since I was five that I ever crossed the line. I was never as happy as when I got back to Maryland (a poser Southern state, but that is neither here nor there).

While it was great to spend a day in the Cradle of Liberty in Philadelphia, I was ready to get to my people.

One incident in particular brought it home to me.

While in Philadelphia, I did what any great Philadelphior would do. I ate a cheesesteak. While mine did not have the grilled peppers and onions I wanted, it was nonetheless a good sammich. However, to get this culinary delicacy, we had to fight our way through a crowded restaurant that looked like it has been remodeled out of an old utility closet from colonial times. Point is, it was small.

So after forcing my way to the cash register where a rude man who looked like an odd combination of Steve Buscemi and Ray Ramano took my order and yelled at me to sign the check after swiping my debit card.

I then moved to the only unoccupied spot in the microscopic eatery. Minding my own business. Being quiet and a polite Southern boy. All of a sudden, someone grabbed my hip and shoved me out of the way physically moving my solid 250 lb. frame. I looked behind me to see an aging woman who is a dead ringer for Anne Meara (Ben Stiller's mom). Trying to look offended she grunted at me with an "out of the way."

Shocked. Horrified. Offended. Impressed at her upper body strength. I moved out of the way.

Feeling my Southern charm was wearing thing, I decided to put on my best Yankee face. I proceeded to scowl for the next 12 minutes while I waited on my food. It must have worked becuase the Romano/Buscemi stunt double who took my order began giving me updates of how long until the food was ready then apologized for it taking too long. The waitresses even established a makeshift no-fly-zone.

I was worried my face would freeze that way.

Why by all rights I should have been proud of myself, I wasn't. I had stooped to a level I never wish to stoop to again. Rude Yankee.

As I made my way back to the comfortable embrace of genteel Dixieland, I realized how much I appreciated my security blanket.

And a piece of me likes to think I was missed too.