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Courtney Green
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We moved from Ohio to South Carolina when I was a 15, and I hated my parents for that. I had a snotty attitude about people from the south. What can I say, I am a yankee! Naturally, when I graduated I moved back up north and went to college. Yet Fourth of July is an important holiday in my family, and something about the south made my parents never want to leave. I was doomed to have to go back to visit South Carolina every summer.
Fireworks play a big part in our summer festivities. For four years, I would visit the fireworks stand near our home. There was this same guy working there every year. I thought he was gorgeous, but figured he drove some jacked up pick up truck and listened to Hank Williams Junior. I also looked down on him because he worked a fireworks stand. He was always helpful, and gave me a good deal, but something about calling me, “ma’am”, made my skin cringe.
One year, my dad told me not to pick up fireworks. I secretly looked forward to seeing the country boy and was disappointed I didn’t have a reason to see him. My dad informed me he had a friend bringing the fireworks to our cookout. Needless to say I almost turned five shades of red when the, “fireworks guy”, showed up with cases, and a cute blond on his arm. My father shook his hand and began introducing him to everyone. I found out that he was the son of one of my dad’s business partners. They owned the stands and I was kind of glad to hear that the blond was his sister!
We ended up being near each other later on that evening and I tried to spark up a conversation with him. “Oh so now you want to talk to me since you found out I own the stand huh?” He was laughing, but he and I both knew I was a snot. I tried to laugh it off, and act like I didn’t know what he was talking about. I tried not to show my amazement that he was studying law at NYU. But he saw it, and said. “You know I have always given you extra attention, and you didn’t so much as bat an eye at me. You truly are a brat. Do you know that?” By that time I knew he was just picking, and I couldn’t resist telling him he would have gotten my number the first time I saw him, had he not called me “ma’am”.
We began dating shortly after that. Two years later, we were at dinner in Cleveland. Our waiter approached me. He tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me ma’am.” My southern gentleman was grinning from ear to ear. He handed me a card. It read, “Dear Brat, Will you marry me?”
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