The line of traffic edged along painfully slow and I, in a hurry as always,

tapped the steering wheel anxiously and craned my neck to see what the holdup

was.

When finally I figured it out, I relaxed and settled back in the seat. Like

the faithful Southerner I am, I considered it my duty to be a reverent participant

in the event.

Warmth and pride trickled steadily across my body as I glanced to the other

side of the highway to see the multitude of cars that had pulled over while

their drivers interrupted their travel and busy schedules to pay respect

to someone that, in all likelihood, they had never known.

Pulling over for funeral processions is a purely Southern tradition. Other

regions don't do it, nor, as far as I can tell, do they want to do it.

It is the one cultural tradition I have found myself explaining over and

over to transplants who are puzzled and, in several instances, irritated

"It is ridiculous!" I recall one hot-tempered young woman saying

as she stormed in late to a meeting. She had been born and raised in another

region then moved to the South when her parents decided to retire to the

coastal area.

I and the other Southerners attempted to proudly explain the respect and

courtesy that goes with the gesture. She poked her lower lip out and rolled

her eyes. Someone pointed out that when she died, she would be given the

same pomp and circumstance.

"Oh, puh-leaze!" She flung her arms upward. "Don't bother!

I wouldn't want to be the reason that someone else is late for a meeting.

I'm more considerate than that."

I folded my arms, tilted my head and smiled sweetly in the way that a diva

does just before she lowers the boom. "You know what we could do just

for you?" I asked slyly. "We could ask the funeral director to

have a car drive in front of the hearse with a big sign that says, 'Don't

stop! Yankee in tow.'"

She was the only one in the room who didn't laugh.

I then thought of my daddy and the funeral procession that had taken him

to the church and to his final resting place. I remembered clearly how it

felt as we sat in the back of the black limousine and watched the solemn

homage that others, mostly strangers, paid to his life and our grief.

For a few moments, it had dried our tears and warmed our aching hearts.

I shall never forget, though, the sight I saw the other afternoon as I followed

that particular funeral procession. We passed a house where several men were

hard at work, replacing the roof. One by one, they laid down their hammers,

stood to their feet, removed their billed caps and laid them across their

hearts.

Thank God, I thought to myself, that I was born - and I certainly plan

to die - in a land of people like that.

[Ronda Rich is the author of "What Southern Women Know (That Every

Woman Should)" and "My Life In The Pits." She lives just to

our north in Gainesville.]