"You know when [some] people come into what they call the sticks, they have a contempt for the yokels. It took me a little time, but when I learned that there aren't any yokels I began to get on fine.... Once you respect them, they can understand anything you can tell them." -a traveling performer quoted in Steinbeck's Travels with Charley

The word "yokel" dates back to 1812 and is believed to be derived from the German word jokel, a "disparaging name for a farmer." It could also, the online entymology dictionary suggests, be a direct appropriation of the British word "yokel," which means "woodpecker" in the dialect of a particular region. In either case, the modern usage of the word has come to mean, in good plain Southern English: "hick."

About a month ago, I was tromping around a creek bed with a writer in the upstate of South Carolina, which is where I'm from. I was interviewing the writer about his new book for an article that will be appearing soon in Traverse. We'd met in the office of an old textile mill that is being converted into an environmental studies center, where we got to talking about history, about old brick buildings, about trees and flood plains, about dams and water levels and kayaks. We'd stepped out of the building and out onto the land, our shoes hitting up against pieces of old brick and fallen tree branches as we made our way down to the water, our eyes drawn to the light thrown by the January sun against the white numbers painted on the top of the only remaining mill tower, marking dates that were important for this little town:  1858-1902.

We talked for a bit before the writer noticed a man opening the gate that kept the land closed to visitors until renovation and landscaping are complete. "Looks like the guy who takes care of the trees for the place," the writer said, and we turned away from the creek. One look and I knew he was local. He had a pick-up truck, a pre-requisite for any respectable good ole boy, and was dressed in camo, and, I soon learned, he had a hell of a drawl. He talked about all the things he was supposed to-- being from this place ("born and raised," he said proudly), working hard, and hunting, especially hunting--and I turned off the audio recorder. After all, the interview wasn't with this yokel; it was with the writer.

The man talked for a good bit while his teenage son sat in the cab of the truck and fiddled aimlessly with the dial on the radio, never really settling on a single station. The more he rambled, the more interesting he was and the more humbled I felt. He talked about his memories of how high the water's risen during flood time. He offered his advice on how he'd replace some structural components of the dam to get them functioning again. I mentioned that I'd noticed some bamboo down along the creek bed, and he explained how he'd dug out the root systems--three to four feet long for every stalk--and eradicated the non-native species without any pesticides. He talked about the game he's found dead on the property in the past couple of months: a couple of fawns and some coyotes. "I got a notion who poisoned them coyotes," he said, "and if I find out for sure, well...."

As the man described his attachment to this land, how we have to start caring for the places we inhabit, and above all, his sense of responsibility to Glendale and what he's learned by being involved in the rehabilitation of the mill and this site, I realized again how complex all of us are and that it's true: there aren't any yokels. As the conversation died down like a good campfire, the man reached out to shake my hand. "It sure was nice to meet you, ma'am," he said, looking me in the eyes. I looked at him and didn't say anything I felt, just shook the cold, work-worn hand he'd offered me. "You've got a good grip," he added. "You, too," I said, and we both laughed.