My mother's Southern accent is so twangy that when she and my Dad were living in upstate New York way back when, a cash register clerk once instructed a bagboy to "Take this lady's groceries to the first foreign car you see because I haven't understood a word she's said."
Her Southern heritage helped get me delivered, too. The story goes that Dad dropped Mom (and unborn me) off at the hospital on his way to work. I guess it was a different time back then, when the husbands weren't part of the delivery process. At any rate, I was being stubborn and Mom was in labor for quite a long time -- so long that my Mom must have told the nurses her whole life history and about growing up in the South. She still tears up every time they play "My Old Kentucky Home" on Derby day. But I wasn't budging. Finally, out of desperation, they decided to point the bed with feet pointed south, hoping that would improve their luck. And out I came.
Mom called Dad to deliver the news, and he raced to the hospital to see the both of us. I lived a chunk of my life in Kentucky and Virginia -- and live now in Florida -- but I don't have a lick of her accent. It wore off during the time I lived in Ohio and Illinois, and so I speak in the Midwestern tongue even though I'd probably classify myself as more Southern than anything. With me, there's never any confusion over where the supermarket bagboy should take my groceries.