I had no sooner posted the vegetable soup recipe below than my four year old daughter rolled out of bed and padded in to my room for a hug and kiss. As we headed into the living room for, she looked up at me and said, "Can we go to the doughnut store for breakfast? I deserve a doughnut, Mom."
I swallowed my rising laughter and said, "Honey, do you know what 'deserve' means? It means you did something good or nice that should be rewarded. What have you done that's special and deserves a reward?"
Without missing a beat she squinched up her nose, smiled sweetly, tilted her head to one side, and said, "I'm going to let you take a shower without walking in on you and watching".
The laughter escaped this time.
And guess what?
She's going to get a doughnut for that one. :-)
Showing posts with label Anecdotes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anecdotes. Show all posts
Friday, January 16, 2009
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Abundance
On the drive home from preschool, my 3 year old daughter handed my husband her latest art project: "Look, Dad, it's a cornucopia!" The brown construction paper horn was adorned with several kinds of fruits and vegetables she had carefully colored and glued onto it. Daddy had just started telling her how nice it was, but she could contain herself no more and excitedly burst forth: "Dad! A cornucopia is a horn-shaped basket that the Indians weaved and they used it to carry lots and lots of vegetables and fruits." She took a breath and continued in a more knowing tone. "The Indians didn't have those big old Wal Mart bags to carry their groceries in , Daddy." My poor husband nearly drove off the road. Tears of mirth ran down our faces and we both shook with silent laughter. After a few minutes we had recovered enough to reassure her that she was absolutely correct.
The next day she and I were hanging her cornucopia up on the kitchen door. "Mommy," she said wistfully, "I wish everybody had cornucopia baskets to carry their groceries. I don't like Wal Mart bags." I agreed wholeheartedly, and my thoughts drifted to sustainability. Many times a day, everything within me yearns to go back to a simpler time and way of life. I'm sure the Indians had a basket more practically-shaped than a cornucopia for carrying food from the fields to storage, but they first had to weave that basket. It would have been a masterful piece of functional art that endured for years. The convenience of that basket would have been appreciated all the more by its user for the labor and creativity that went into its making.
To me, living simply and frugally does not equal drab misery. It is an opportunity to express my creativity in all aspects of life--an exercise resulting in beautiful, unique objects that grant many years of aesthetic pleasure and personal satisfaction in the course of service. This thought makes me smile almost as widely as my daughter's innocent humor.
Not three days ago I was feeling overwhelmed and pressured by the demands of the world. After having a good cry and venting some frustration, I still didn't feel entirely better. After this conversation with my daughter, however, all seems to have fallen back into place for me. Just because my home and my life are assaulted by a barrage of demands doesn't necessarily mean that those demands are relevant, or that they have a place in my realm. I can simply and painlessly say "no" to so many of them, freeing myself to be mindfully, creatively, joyfully present in the here and now to meet those that are appropriate and relevant.
And a little child shall lead them...
Stress has been replaced with gratitude, and there is much for which I am thankful. With every silent "thank you" I breathe toward the heavens, life glows brighter and richer and more precious.
"Every time we say "thank you", we experience
nothing less than heaven on earth"
~Sarah ban Breathnach
Monday, September 8, 2008
Today in Numbers
Times I hit the snooze button on the alarm: 0
Hugs and kisses before leaving the house: >20
Huge, unsolicited smiles from passers-by: 6
Spontaneous, spirit-lifting conversations with total strangers: 4
Words of encouragement from acquaintances: 2
Songs in my heart: 1 continuous streaming 'podcast' (Godcast?)
All of this, no less, by 3 pm on a Monday...I am blessed!
Hugs and kisses before leaving the house: >20
Huge, unsolicited smiles from passers-by: 6
Spontaneous, spirit-lifting conversations with total strangers: 4
Words of encouragement from acquaintances: 2
Songs in my heart: 1 continuous streaming 'podcast' (Godcast?)
All of this, no less, by 3 pm on a Monday...I am blessed!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Miss Joan
Yesterday, my three year old daughter and I went to Daily Fresh Donuts for our weekly treat. While I was paying Miss V. and my daughter was carefully carrying her doughnut to our table, I noticed a smiling woman seated at the neighboring table. She appeared to be in her early 50's and had kind eyes.
Apparently my daughter thought so too, because she greeted the woman very brightly. The woman raised her eyes to me and said, "I love little ones. They're so precious, I could just eat them up with a spoon! They know, too. They know when an adult is kind, otherwise they won't have anything to do with them and they'll cringe. They always seem to know I'm a grandmother, that's for sure! A little one in the grocery store waved at me the other day sayin', 'Hi, MeeMaw!' over and over!" I nodded knowingly and agreed that small children are amazing judges of character.
Miss V. came over and introduced us properly. So it was that I made the acquaintance of Miss Joan. Since there were no other customers at the time, Miss V. drew up a chair and we all began chatting. It's amazing how, in small communities, one's life story comes pouring out so quickly and so easily. It feels safe, though. People tend to respond in a way that says, "What can I do for you?" rather than "Oooh, I can't wait to dish the dirt on this one!" Telling our stories creates a sense of solidarity; it strengthens the bonds of community.
Miss Joan's story is an inspiring one. She may have been born in upstate New York, but she is the most quintessentially Southern lady I have ever met. She was a nurse for "22 years, nine months, and six days" as she tells it. That's how she met her husband. He was wounded in the Vietnam war, shrapnel to the chest, and she nursed him back to health. He was a career military man and they lived in many places before retiring in South Mississippi.
Together they had ten children and 23 grandchildren, and she has loved every minute of it. "Ten children?" my mouth gaped momentarily. "I can't imagine how it didn't wear you out." A defiant sparkle lit Miss Joan's eye as she threw back her shoulders and retorted, "It was fun! And I'm no superwoman. But if one of the kids was up sick all night, I'd be right there with them. I could stay up for three days straight if I had to. They're my babies. That's just what you do."
She spent the last five years of her nursing career caring for her terminally ill husband. It seemed fitting to lay nursing to rest along with him as she moved into the uncharted waters of the next chapter of her life. "We did everything together", she said. "We had all kinds of adventures. Now, I'm having to find new things to do on my own." One of her sons owns the Beatrice Sawmill & Construction Company, and built her a cabin behind his own on their 42 acres. She now feeds the crew at the mill for both breakfast and lunch. Sometimes there is only one man; at other times there are close to 30. Whatever Miss Joan feeds them it is always made from scratch, including the bread. "It's so easy!", she said. "It makes me sick that the most baking these girls nowadays do is pop open one of those biscuit tubes. I won't even touch one of them. A tube!", she scoffed.
As our lively conversation went back and forth, Miss Joan talked about all the activities that help her to keep fit and strong. She let it slip that she is in her 70's--though like a true Southern lady, she declined to say at which end of that decade. Her indefatiguable nature has served her well. She is an amazing asset not only to her community in Beatrice, but to the greater community in Wiggins and as a model to younger generations.
Back and forth our banter went for over an hour. When I told the story of having to perform CPR on my third child when she was ten days old, Miss Joan and Miss V. choked up with tears alongside me. We laughed together at tales of the antics of our children. We talked about the state of the community and the economy. We shared tidbits from the rich founts of knowledge each one of us has amassed over the years. We encouraged each other, not only for what lay ahead the remainder of that day, but as women--in all of the roles we fulfill with our lives.
As Miss Joan and I rose to leave, there were hugs all around. "Come see me in Beatrice sometime", she said. Miss V. had found her second wind and returned to the kitchen with renewed energy. I went on my way feeling blessed by the love of new friends.
I wonder how many other lives Miss Joan and Miss V. have touched. They may seem like ordinary women with unremarkable lives; on closer examination, they prove to be quite extraordinary. I am certain that there are too many people to count who would testify to that.
Each one of us who lives and breathes is truly extraordinary, whether or not we realize it. What we choose to do with our life can and does make a difference in the lives of others--a difference for better or for worse, depending on how we have chosen. May we all live as mindfully, as purposefully, as kindly, as indefatiguably, as compassionately as Miss Joan and Miss V.
Apparently my daughter thought so too, because she greeted the woman very brightly. The woman raised her eyes to me and said, "I love little ones. They're so precious, I could just eat them up with a spoon! They know, too. They know when an adult is kind, otherwise they won't have anything to do with them and they'll cringe. They always seem to know I'm a grandmother, that's for sure! A little one in the grocery store waved at me the other day sayin', 'Hi, MeeMaw!' over and over!" I nodded knowingly and agreed that small children are amazing judges of character.
Miss V. came over and introduced us properly. So it was that I made the acquaintance of Miss Joan. Since there were no other customers at the time, Miss V. drew up a chair and we all began chatting. It's amazing how, in small communities, one's life story comes pouring out so quickly and so easily. It feels safe, though. People tend to respond in a way that says, "What can I do for you?" rather than "Oooh, I can't wait to dish the dirt on this one!" Telling our stories creates a sense of solidarity; it strengthens the bonds of community.
Miss Joan's story is an inspiring one. She may have been born in upstate New York, but she is the most quintessentially Southern lady I have ever met. She was a nurse for "22 years, nine months, and six days" as she tells it. That's how she met her husband. He was wounded in the Vietnam war, shrapnel to the chest, and she nursed him back to health. He was a career military man and they lived in many places before retiring in South Mississippi.
Together they had ten children and 23 grandchildren, and she has loved every minute of it. "Ten children?" my mouth gaped momentarily. "I can't imagine how it didn't wear you out." A defiant sparkle lit Miss Joan's eye as she threw back her shoulders and retorted, "It was fun! And I'm no superwoman. But if one of the kids was up sick all night, I'd be right there with them. I could stay up for three days straight if I had to. They're my babies. That's just what you do."
She spent the last five years of her nursing career caring for her terminally ill husband. It seemed fitting to lay nursing to rest along with him as she moved into the uncharted waters of the next chapter of her life. "We did everything together", she said. "We had all kinds of adventures. Now, I'm having to find new things to do on my own." One of her sons owns the Beatrice Sawmill & Construction Company, and built her a cabin behind his own on their 42 acres. She now feeds the crew at the mill for both breakfast and lunch. Sometimes there is only one man; at other times there are close to 30. Whatever Miss Joan feeds them it is always made from scratch, including the bread. "It's so easy!", she said. "It makes me sick that the most baking these girls nowadays do is pop open one of those biscuit tubes. I won't even touch one of them. A tube!", she scoffed.
As our lively conversation went back and forth, Miss Joan talked about all the activities that help her to keep fit and strong. She let it slip that she is in her 70's--though like a true Southern lady, she declined to say at which end of that decade. Her indefatiguable nature has served her well. She is an amazing asset not only to her community in Beatrice, but to the greater community in Wiggins and as a model to younger generations.
Back and forth our banter went for over an hour. When I told the story of having to perform CPR on my third child when she was ten days old, Miss Joan and Miss V. choked up with tears alongside me. We laughed together at tales of the antics of our children. We talked about the state of the community and the economy. We shared tidbits from the rich founts of knowledge each one of us has amassed over the years. We encouraged each other, not only for what lay ahead the remainder of that day, but as women--in all of the roles we fulfill with our lives.
As Miss Joan and I rose to leave, there were hugs all around. "Come see me in Beatrice sometime", she said. Miss V. had found her second wind and returned to the kitchen with renewed energy. I went on my way feeling blessed by the love of new friends.
I wonder how many other lives Miss Joan and Miss V. have touched. They may seem like ordinary women with unremarkable lives; on closer examination, they prove to be quite extraordinary. I am certain that there are too many people to count who would testify to that.
Each one of us who lives and breathes is truly extraordinary, whether or not we realize it. What we choose to do with our life can and does make a difference in the lives of others--a difference for better or for worse, depending on how we have chosen. May we all live as mindfully, as purposefully, as kindly, as indefatiguably, as compassionately as Miss Joan and Miss V.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
There oughtta be a law...
Judging by the statutes below--all of which are still on the books of these Southern states--there are some pretty interesting folks running around. After all, if a law exists, you know more than one person has done something to prompt it...
As well as I have transplanted to Southern soil, before undertaking this research I honestly did not know that the South had such an epidemic of large animals in bathtubs, ice cream cones in pockets, enterprising cotton farmers, aggressive senior citizens, or that they were such kill-joys in Texas and Virginia: C'mon, no going barefoot, trick-or-treating, or tickle fights? Geez!
Mississippi
-No turtle races may be held at the airport.
Alabama
-It is illegal for a driver to be blindfolded while operating a vehicle.
North Carolina
-You can't plow a cotton field with an elephant.
South Carolina
-Horses may not be kept in bathtubs.
Arkansas
-Alligators may not be kept in bathtubs.
Georgia
-Donkeys may not be kept in bathtubs. (Do you see a pattern here??)
-No one may carry an ice cream cone in their back pocket if it is Sunday.
Texas
-A city ordinance states that a person cannot go barefoot without first obtaining a special five-dollar permit.
-It's illegal to put graffiti on someone else's cow.
Louisiana
-Biting someone with your natural teeth is “simple assault,” while biting someone with your false teeth is “aggravated assault".
-It is a $500 fine to instruct a pizza delivery man to deliver a pizza to your friend without them knowing.
Virginia
-Children are not to go trick-or-treating on Halloween.
-It is illegal to tickle women.
Now, Kentucky and Tennessee fall into a special category, being technically in the South but the center of the Hillbilly world. Accordingly, they have some extra special laws:
Kentucky
-By law, anyone who has been drinking is "sober" until he or she "cannot hold onto the ground."
-It is illegal to transport an ice cream cone in your pocket.
-Every citizen of Kentucky is required by law to take a bath at least once a year.
Tennessee
-You can’t shoot any game other than whales from a moving automobile.
-It is illegal to use a lasso to catch a fish.
Now that all of my Northern readers are feeling pretty smug about themselves and laughing at the poor, ignorant South, let's see what faux pas their kin are guilty of having committed:
Alaska
- In Fairbanks, it is illegal to feed alcoholic beverages to a moose.
Arizona
- Any misdemeanor committed while wearing a red mask is considered a felony. (A black mask, however, is fine.)
Illinois
- It is illegal for anyone to give lighted cigars to dogs, cats, and other domesticated animal kept as pets.
Massachusetts
- No gorilla may be in the back seat of any car at any time.
- Mourners at a wake may not eat more than three sandwiches.
Nebraska
- A parent can be arrested if her/his child cannot hold back a burp during a church service.
Pennsylvania
- Any motorist who sights a team of horses coming toward him must pull well off the road, cover his car with a blanket or canvas that blends with the countryside, and let the horses pass. If the horses appear skittish, the motorist must take his car apart, piece by piece, and hide it under the nearest bushes.
Washington
- All lollipops are banned.
As well as I have transplanted to Southern soil, before undertaking this research I honestly did not know that the South had such an epidemic of large animals in bathtubs, ice cream cones in pockets, enterprising cotton farmers, aggressive senior citizens, or that they were such kill-joys in Texas and Virginia: C'mon, no going barefoot, trick-or-treating, or tickle fights? Geez!
Mississippi
-No turtle races may be held at the airport.
Alabama
-It is illegal for a driver to be blindfolded while operating a vehicle.
North Carolina
-You can't plow a cotton field with an elephant.
South Carolina
-Horses may not be kept in bathtubs.
Arkansas
-Alligators may not be kept in bathtubs.
Georgia
-Donkeys may not be kept in bathtubs. (Do you see a pattern here??)
-No one may carry an ice cream cone in their back pocket if it is Sunday.
Texas
-A city ordinance states that a person cannot go barefoot without first obtaining a special five-dollar permit.
-It's illegal to put graffiti on someone else's cow.
Louisiana
-Biting someone with your natural teeth is “simple assault,” while biting someone with your false teeth is “aggravated assault".
-It is a $500 fine to instruct a pizza delivery man to deliver a pizza to your friend without them knowing.
Virginia
-Children are not to go trick-or-treating on Halloween.
-It is illegal to tickle women.
Now, Kentucky and Tennessee fall into a special category, being technically in the South but the center of the Hillbilly world. Accordingly, they have some extra special laws:
Kentucky
-By law, anyone who has been drinking is "sober" until he or she "cannot hold onto the ground."
-It is illegal to transport an ice cream cone in your pocket.
-Every citizen of Kentucky is required by law to take a bath at least once a year.
Tennessee
-You can’t shoot any game other than whales from a moving automobile.
-It is illegal to use a lasso to catch a fish.
Now that all of my Northern readers are feeling pretty smug about themselves and laughing at the poor, ignorant South, let's see what faux pas their kin are guilty of having committed:
Alaska
- In Fairbanks, it is illegal to feed alcoholic beverages to a moose.
Arizona
- Any misdemeanor committed while wearing a red mask is considered a felony. (A black mask, however, is fine.)
Illinois
- It is illegal for anyone to give lighted cigars to dogs, cats, and other domesticated animal kept as pets.
Massachusetts
- No gorilla may be in the back seat of any car at any time.
- Mourners at a wake may not eat more than three sandwiches.
Nebraska
- A parent can be arrested if her/his child cannot hold back a burp during a church service.
Pennsylvania
- Any motorist who sights a team of horses coming toward him must pull well off the road, cover his car with a blanket or canvas that blends with the countryside, and let the horses pass. If the horses appear skittish, the motorist must take his car apart, piece by piece, and hide it under the nearest bushes.
Washington
- All lollipops are banned.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Lemon Pledge
My three year old daughter and I were silently enjoying the scenery as we traveled along a country road en route to her preschool.
"Mommy!" Her commanding voice drew me away from my mental review of the day's errands.
"Yes, honey?"
"Are we doing the lemon?"
My mind frantically sifted through memories of the last several days, looking for something--anything--to which she might be referring. I drew a complete and utter blank so asked her, "What lemon, sweetie?"
"The speed lemon, Mama!" she replied in a slightly exasperated tone before generously adding, "You know, how fast we are going in the car".
"Ah, the speed limit! Yes, we are doing the speed limit. Do you see that white sign on the side of the road? It says '40'. Now look at my speedometer here. Do you see the red line? It is pointing to 40, too. When the numbers match, that means I am doing the speed limit."
"Oh, OK." My daughter sighed in relief, then beamed. "Good job, Mama! But that white sign says 'Speed Limit 40', not just '40'."
I shook my head in amazement. "So it does", I said. When did she learn to read the words on that sign? And when did she learn about the speed limit? I hadn't taught her, and my husband later confirmed that he hadn't, either.
We arrived at preschool and I helped her out of the car. She pointed excitedly and shouted, "Ooh, look, Mommy, an American flag!" She stood straight and tall, placed her right hand over her heart, and began to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I stood quietly at her side, listening in growing wonder as she perfectly articulated the entire Pledge, including the word 'indivisible'.
When she was finished, I praised her and noted that 'indivisible' was a big word. She nodded sagely. "I can say 'commodity' and that's a big word too, Mama. But you forgot to put your right hand over your heart. Maybe you better come inside to circle time so Miss Mandy can show you the right way to do it."
I scooped her up into my arms and, placing my cheek against hers, gave her the biggest bear hug I could muster. Smiling, I carried her inside.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Signs and Wonders, Part 2
I wish I had my camera with me on the drive in to school this morning. Taylor's Food Store is a little country grocery store/butcher shop just around the corner from the college, and it is owned and operated by some wonderful, friendly Christian people. There is a sign board out front, and every week they put up a new inspirational message. Today it read:
TODAY IS HUMP DAY
CELEBRATE YOUR MARRIAGE
CELEBRATE YOUR MARRIAGE
It struck me as funny, and I laughed all the way to my parking space. "The words 'hump', 'celebrate', and 'marriage' probably shouldn't be used together in the same sentence!", I mused aloud.
One of my classmates asked me why I was chuckling, and I told her. She accused me of having a dirty mind. If I do, I must not be the only one in Perkinston. By the time I got out of class an hour later and headed over to Taylor's, the sign had been changed because of multiple comments on its suggestive nature. (This isn't just the Bible Belt; it's the buckle of the Bible Belt!)
The owners were suitably mortified. Me, I can't stop chortling. It's been one of those days!
One of my classmates asked me why I was chuckling, and I told her. She accused me of having a dirty mind. If I do, I must not be the only one in Perkinston. By the time I got out of class an hour later and headed over to Taylor's, the sign had been changed because of multiple comments on its suggestive nature. (This isn't just the Bible Belt; it's the buckle of the Bible Belt!)
The owners were suitably mortified. Me, I can't stop chortling. It's been one of those days!
Friday, February 22, 2008
Vice Tan You Got There
Driving from one end of town to the other today I noticed three separate tanning salons, a fact I find quite perplexing given that:
- This small town has a population of only 3,000+ souls;
- 46% of the population is of color, so not likely to be in the market for a tanning salon;
- Women over the age of 20 who were "brought up right" still believe that a lady should glow with only a hint of sun-kissed color, not be brown;
- A good portion of men over the age of 20 work outdoors, have farmer's tans, and could care less about tanning beds;
- The average income in this rural county is $19,111 per working adult; and
- We live a mere 32 miles from the beaches on the Gulf of Mexico, where tanning is free.
How then can it be that one small town supports three locations? To be fair, one of them isn't a tanning salon per se; it consists of a couple of tanning beds located in a video rental store (remember rural diversification?). This is a combination I can't fathom: one is supposed to cover the eyes with opaque protection when using a tanning bed, so it's not as if the customer could watch the video playing in the store while absorbing the UV rays...
Perhaps I'm not the insider I thought I was, since I haven't been able to unravel the mystery of this secret vice. Then again...I never see folks around here with that fake, I-got-it-in-a-tanning-bed tan, so perhaps there's another use for the beds that I haven't yet learned?
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Community
Here, folks take an interest and remember, especially when you don't want them to. They remember the deeds of your forebears, too. While at work the other day, I met the great uncle of my neighbor across the street. He praised his grand-niece and her husband, and then added in a conspiratorial tone that one of her relations "on the other side" is "one of them no-good Jeb Parkers". [Apparently, the rest of the Parkers and their offspring turned out fine, except for Jeb and a few of his progeny]. The extended family is waiting with baited breath to see if Jeb's bad blood will come out in her son, who couldn't be any nicer for a nine-year-old boy. No wonder she sighs and shakes her head a lot, and they keep pretty much to themselves.
Ah, small town life. At times I'd rather be anonymous. I occasionally enjoy visits to large cities, because I can slip through unnoticed like a blood cell in an artery, propelled by the beat of urban life: a microscopic part of the whole. Whenever I take one of these field trips, though, I invariably feel saddened by the end of the day. Not only does no one in the urban organism know my name--or even care; the same incidental existence feels as though it must be true for every other inhabitant.
No, I'd rather live here. When I first came South, I was afraid that I wouldn't ever be accepted as one of the community because
(a) I came from the North (no matter what you were told about the Mason-Dixon Line in your American history class, Maryland is North, according to the South);
(b) Worse yet, I grew up in California!
(c) I don't drawl; and
(d) My last name isn't Parker, Rawls, Bond, Breland, Havard, Dickerson, Collins, Harper, Bond, Hartfield, Fairley, Dedeaux, Ladner, Saucier, Smith, or Thornton.
During my initial year here, the first question asked of me, after my name, was "Now then, darlin', who's yer kin?" In the rural Deep South, every person born within a 50 mile radius seems to become part of a collective mental pedigree known by every cognizant citizen over the age of 13. Even before names and "Pleased to meet you"'s are exchanged, the older folks will squint at you and strain to place your likeness on a branch of the communal tree: "You'd be powerfully favorin' Mr. Joe Dedeaux's kin...are you one of theirs?"
The downcast faces resulting from my explanation that I am, alas, not originally from these parts are even sadder than they would have been if I had told them I was related to Jeb Parker. If were one of Jeb's kin, I might have bad blood waitin' to come out, but at least I would already be part of the communal fold: a product of the hard work, gentle chidings, loving guidance, and fond doting of the extended family. There would be a general sense of relief that I would probably "turn out all right". I would be a variable compatible with local algorithms.
Kin or stranger, though, folks around these parts will evaluate you on your own merits. If you are honest, kind, hardworking, neighborly, and polite, they'll take you in as one of their own. They'll be inquisitive, yes; they'll also be helpful, compassionate, even protective.
Before long, you'll be thriving as a grafted branch of the communal tree. You'll feel your own roots creeping deeper into the red clay soil, giving you a sustenance that propels you forward in life even as you strengthen your ties with the history of this land and its people.
In other words, you'll be "country".
Ah, small town life. At times I'd rather be anonymous. I occasionally enjoy visits to large cities, because I can slip through unnoticed like a blood cell in an artery, propelled by the beat of urban life: a microscopic part of the whole. Whenever I take one of these field trips, though, I invariably feel saddened by the end of the day. Not only does no one in the urban organism know my name--or even care; the same incidental existence feels as though it must be true for every other inhabitant.
No, I'd rather live here. When I first came South, I was afraid that I wouldn't ever be accepted as one of the community because
(a) I came from the North (no matter what you were told about the Mason-Dixon Line in your American history class, Maryland is North, according to the South);
(b) Worse yet, I grew up in California!
(c) I don't drawl; and
(d) My last name isn't Parker, Rawls, Bond, Breland, Havard, Dickerson, Collins, Harper, Bond, Hartfield, Fairley, Dedeaux, Ladner, Saucier, Smith, or Thornton.
During my initial year here, the first question asked of me, after my name, was "Now then, darlin', who's yer kin?" In the rural Deep South, every person born within a 50 mile radius seems to become part of a collective mental pedigree known by every cognizant citizen over the age of 13. Even before names and "Pleased to meet you"'s are exchanged, the older folks will squint at you and strain to place your likeness on a branch of the communal tree: "You'd be powerfully favorin' Mr. Joe Dedeaux's kin...are you one of theirs?"
The downcast faces resulting from my explanation that I am, alas, not originally from these parts are even sadder than they would have been if I had told them I was related to Jeb Parker. If were one of Jeb's kin, I might have bad blood waitin' to come out, but at least I would already be part of the communal fold: a product of the hard work, gentle chidings, loving guidance, and fond doting of the extended family. There would be a general sense of relief that I would probably "turn out all right". I would be a variable compatible with local algorithms.
Kin or stranger, though, folks around these parts will evaluate you on your own merits. If you are honest, kind, hardworking, neighborly, and polite, they'll take you in as one of their own. They'll be inquisitive, yes; they'll also be helpful, compassionate, even protective.
Before long, you'll be thriving as a grafted branch of the communal tree. You'll feel your own roots creeping deeper into the red clay soil, giving you a sustenance that propels you forward in life even as you strengthen your ties with the history of this land and its people.
In other words, you'll be "country".
Coffee Break
I'm sitting at work, waiting for my coffee.
My boss is a tea drinker, and there isn't a coffee maker in the shop kitchen to take care of my afternoon cup of java. It isn't so much for the caffeine; it is more a ten-minute gift of repose and refreshment that I give to myself. Alright, I'll admit it--on SOME days, it's for the caffeine!
Fortunately for me, the Landmark Cafe is up the street. Along with usual pub grub and the best gumbo in town, they serve alligator meat po boys. I haven't tried one yet, but they're supposed to be good. The last time I ate there, I asked the waiter what alligator tastes like. He paused, lost in thought. I chuckled, and said, "Like chicken, right?" His expression dissipated into one of perplexity as his brow furrowed. "Why, no, Ma'am, it tastes like alligator."
I've gotten to know the proprietors, and they very kindly send someone to walk 2 blocks to bring me coffee on days when I'm working alone at the Herb Shop and can't get away.
Free with the coffee is conversation: "How's the little one doing? Has business at the shop been bad with Miss Vicki on vacation? You know some of the older folks like her better than you, no offense. Did Mr. John get that pothole in the driveway fixed alright?" I like this more than "Bad weather we're having", "Have a nice day", and the other usual impersonal niceties and pause-fillers people in larger towns tend to exchange.
The Landmark isn't really a Cafe with a capital 'C'. It looks almost like someplace you'd see in a late 19th century frontier town. The walls are decorated with photos of Lucedale around the turn of the century (town was founded in 1901) and memorabilia from varous ranches run by the extended family through whom the cafe ownership has been passed down. On the ceiling are fishing nets filled with glass bobbers, seashells, dried sea urchins, and a few taxidermied young alligators. I've never quite figured out the logic behind this juxtaposition. Maybe I've been too influenced by the modern world of advertising, suggesting that there has to be a unified "theme" to everything. Perhaps the odds and ends just tell a family story.
They don't do lattes in Lucedale--or capuccinos, or espressos, or even gourmet coffees. The Landmark just makes it "reg'lar", and I take it black, which makes it easy. And I'll be forever grateful that, after a long, hard day on my feet, the owner of the Landmark walks two blocks in the rain to bring me a cup.
My boss is a tea drinker, and there isn't a coffee maker in the shop kitchen to take care of my afternoon cup of java. It isn't so much for the caffeine; it is more a ten-minute gift of repose and refreshment that I give to myself. Alright, I'll admit it--on SOME days, it's for the caffeine!
Fortunately for me, the Landmark Cafe is up the street. Along with usual pub grub and the best gumbo in town, they serve alligator meat po boys. I haven't tried one yet, but they're supposed to be good. The last time I ate there, I asked the waiter what alligator tastes like. He paused, lost in thought. I chuckled, and said, "Like chicken, right?" His expression dissipated into one of perplexity as his brow furrowed. "Why, no, Ma'am, it tastes like alligator."
I've gotten to know the proprietors, and they very kindly send someone to walk 2 blocks to bring me coffee on days when I'm working alone at the Herb Shop and can't get away.
Free with the coffee is conversation: "How's the little one doing? Has business at the shop been bad with Miss Vicki on vacation? You know some of the older folks like her better than you, no offense. Did Mr. John get that pothole in the driveway fixed alright?" I like this more than "Bad weather we're having", "Have a nice day", and the other usual impersonal niceties and pause-fillers people in larger towns tend to exchange.
The Landmark isn't really a Cafe with a capital 'C'. It looks almost like someplace you'd see in a late 19th century frontier town. The walls are decorated with photos of Lucedale around the turn of the century (town was founded in 1901) and memorabilia from varous ranches run by the extended family through whom the cafe ownership has been passed down. On the ceiling are fishing nets filled with glass bobbers, seashells, dried sea urchins, and a few taxidermied young alligators. I've never quite figured out the logic behind this juxtaposition. Maybe I've been too influenced by the modern world of advertising, suggesting that there has to be a unified "theme" to everything. Perhaps the odds and ends just tell a family story.
They don't do lattes in Lucedale--or capuccinos, or espressos, or even gourmet coffees. The Landmark just makes it "reg'lar", and I take it black, which makes it easy. And I'll be forever grateful that, after a long, hard day on my feet, the owner of the Landmark walks two blocks in the rain to bring me a cup.
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