I once took on the Billy Carter persona for an evening in upstate New York.  Had 'em fooled for about 30 minutes. As President Jimmy Carter's late beer-swilling, course-talking brother, Billy, would have said, “Them Yankees is gullible folks.”

It was in the late 1970s, the president of Carrier Corp, (the air-conditioning company), invited a group of Carolina businessmen to visit the company's international home office in Syracuse, NY.  In fact, he sent the company's Gulfstream jet down to pick us up.  It was my first ride on a corporate jet and I couldn't believe the upscale décor and service.  The only problem I found was the toilet was six inches away from the passenger seats and had only a flimsy cloth curtain for privacy.  But we Southerners can adapt and things turned out well because it was only a little over an hour's flight.

There were less than a dozen of us in the group and I was the only one who didn't play golf. I had given up the game several years before after I turned a golf cart over on myself. But only after I had sensed the impending danger on the rain-slickened, foothills course and had shoved my wife and young son out of the cart to prevent injury to them.  I was not as lucky and after my petite wife had lifted the heavy cart off of my legs, I found myself on the way to the emergency room.  Nothing was broken, just badly bruised — especially my pride. I decided right then and there that anyone without enough sense to drive a golf cart should never play golf again.  I haven't.

Anyway, on our second afternoon in upstate NY, the others went out to play golf and I was to meet them for dinner at a swanky Syracuse Country Club.  They arranged a ride for me and I arrived just as the cocktail crowd was gathering for the evening.  I was alone and didn't know anyone there.  This doesn't usually bother me because I am a rather garrulous fellow and can start up a friendly (or otherwise) conversation in most any environment.

But you know how stand-offish some of those Yankees can be.  Actually, I eventually found the folks from upstate NY little different from the folks in upcountry Carolina.  They were delightful gentry but I didn't know it when I first arrived at the country club.

At first, I perceived that the folks were a little cool to this stranger in their midst.  They didn't know me and I didn't know a soul present, so, I decided to stimulate a little social interaction to the gathering.

The Carrier folks had given us a nametag to identify us to the country club folks as guests of Carrier Corp. in order that we might not be perceived as interlopers.  Mine clearly said I was “John Brock.”  I had a brainstorm.  Since, no one present would have paid the slightest attention to someone named John Brock; I decided to change my name.

We were well into Jimmy Carter's administration but the president's errant brother, Billy, was claiming a lot of public attention.  You remember Billy.  He was the only thing that by comparison kept the Carter Whitehouse from becoming an even bigger joke. Billy was probably the reason their outspoken mother, Miz Lillian, was prompted to say, “I love all of my children but I don't like some of them.”  I don't think she was referring to Jimmy.

Well, I decided to be Billy Carter for the evening and changed my nametag, thusly.

As folks began to notice the name on this stranger's chest, the conversation flowed. “Are you really THE Billy Carter?” the queries came.  I simply replied, “What does the name tag say?”

I was 40 pounds lighter and could have “passed” I supposed because I took on an exaggerated Southern dialect as we bantered back and forth.  They should have known better because I didn't smoke and I was drinking Pepsi instead of long-neck Budweisers.  I knew my share of Jimmy Carter jokes and kept them entertained until my fellow Carolinians arrived and put a stop to the charade.

It was fun while it lasted and I found the upstate New York inhabitants to be friendly, warm and hospital folks because after they discovered the ruse, we all had a good laugh and we continued the evening in warm camaraderie.

Yankees ain't so bad.  At least, most of 'em.

John Brock is a retired college professor and, newspaper editor/publisher, who lives in Georgetown County.  He can be reached by mail at this newspaper, or by e-mail at brock@johnbrock.com