"We're south of the Mason- Dixon line and we need to get your passport stamped," said my Virginia-born husband, Gordon, who still thinks he has to have a Green Card to live in Vermont. Gordon and I are commuting to work - from Vermont to Florida, where we volunteer at a national wildlife refuge.

I'm Yankee born and raised, and last night for dinner we had exotic foreign foods: a scrumptious Maryland crabcake, some unrecognizeable vegetable that looked like the soggy stuff you peel off your lawnmower blade when the grass is too wet, and some round little doughy objects sweetly called 'Hush Puppies', which looked suspiciously like certain unmentionable puppy parts.

Speaking of puppies, traveling with us are Lizzie, a five-year-old Goldendoodle, and Gertie, a thirteen year-old Black Lab. Southern smells on rest area grass are definitely more enticing than our lawn: we each require a shoulder rub nightly to reduce the pain in our joints, contorted from the day's leash-yanking.

You can tell when you cross the Mason-Dixon line: there's a distinct flavor of 'Old South' - noticeable first in the architecture. Bricks and columns are dominant features of the old homes that graced this area. The Commonwealth of Virginia, its name dating back to its first constitution adopted in 1776, is one of the original thirteen colonies. Historical markers by the roadside remind you of the passage of time and note-worthy events, such as the exact location of John Wilkes Booth's demise in Port Royale, following Lincoln's assassination. The markers lend perspective of age and history to the area, and although America is in its infancy compared to Europe and Asia, you get a sense of time that is different from Vermont.

Somehow there's a feeling that the South has never quite forgiven the North for the collective horrors of the Civil War: Confederate markers, forts and tributes to battles and generals are frequent reminders of the bloody history of our nation. "Live passionately!" trumpets a behemoth billboard on the edge of the road, and the greater-than-life bust of a shouting Confederate soldier in war regalia is the notable background. I am mindful of the poignant war memorial in the Northfield Commons.

Gordon starts singing: "Long gone, ain't he lucky. Long gone from Kentucky

Long gone, what I mean

Long-gone John from Bowling Green."

Long-gone John was from Bowling Green, Kentucky, and as we pass through Virginia's town of the same name, I ask the history of such towns: the greens were actually used for bowling in Colonial times.

"Hanover County! Home of Hanover tomatoes!" We laugh (Gordon's roots run deep). We drive along through rolling hills, and although it's late October, the colors are only just beginning to show among the trees.

On our way through this natal state of his, we take a side-trip to Fredericksburg, where the Vermont granite monument honoring the Vermont Brigade and the brave, young soldiers who fought here on behalf of the Union, sits for eternity in the Wilderness, named for the inhospitable character of the land. A journal recovered from a Union soldier describes it as "a region of doom and the shadow of death."

On this gentle October morning mild, around a bend in the trail, we come upon the unmistakable profile of Camels Hump, stretched along the 5 foot top of a 7 foot high block of Vermont granite. Letters sent home from soldiers expressed a longing to see this Green Mountain profile once again. Placed as a memorial in 2006, 144 years after this dreadful battle, the monument stands alone, isolated. Amid the silence of the forest, with filtered sunlight bathing the memorial, we reflect - at this site, over 1200 Vermont men gave their lives to preserve the unity of our country.

"The flag of each regiment, though pierced and tattered, still flaunts in the face of the foe…", we read, and depart quietly to ponder along the way, as we resume our journey.

Christine Barnes is a Northfield resident and a volunteer at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge, St. Marks, Florida.