Friday, July 29, 2005

The Drive-In

The following was written by Yellowrose.


It has been many years since I have been to a drive-in. I have so many childhood memories going with my family to The Sheridan Drive-In back home in Illinois. We would pack up the car with pillows and blankets, my sister and I in our pj's, our mom would pop grocery bags full of popcorn, and we would head out to see the latest movie.

We'd get there early enough so we could watch the cartoons they would show for the kids, and on the warm summer nights dad would let us climb up on the top of the car till the main feature started. As we got older, in our neighborhood we had several families with five or more children, and many times all the families got together and made a night of it at the drive-in. We always made sure we saw the latest Disney movie like, “Herbie, The Love Bug,” being a favorite. The memories those nights made, all us kids sprawled out across lawn chairs and tops of chairs, throwing popcorn at each other, whispering during the movie and swatting at mosquitoes will last with me forever.

As I got to be a teenager, the drive-in was a local hang out for us. We would all gather and watch the newest horror flick like “Friday the 13th,” together while the guys in our group would take great pleasure in trying to scare us girls all night. Let us not forget date night at the drive-in. Snuggling up watching a scary movie, because what fun would it be if it was a comedy, with the boy of your dreams. So many memories that were had at that drive-in, so many movies watched, so much popcorn eaten, and sodas gulped. I wonder why the drive-in has disappeared and replaced by the Mega Theater. It is a shame that so many will not have the memories that we made in a place called the Drive-In.

Come visit YellowRose's Garden , see what's blooming today!

Another Southern Flashback

As a contributor that is currently living more 'up north' than down south, most of my contributions to this 'very-dear-to-my-heart' e-zine are going to be 'flashbacks'. Perhaps that is my place in this site. My posts will be the "Southern Flashback" sections.

This mornings flashback; Vanderbilt

I was quickly surfing some blogs when I read about someone going to Vanderbilt in Nashville for some medical tests. With that one word I was instantly transported back in time to when I started my job in Tennessee.

Around 1991 we moved to Nashville, Tennessee from Southern California. One of the aspects of my job there was doing a weekly bulletin. Because Vanderbilt is a very large institution in Nashville, there were numerous times it was mentioned in the bulletins for various reasons whether they were in reference to the college, the medical center or any sponsorships they did, etc.

So I had worked at my new job, in my new city and new state for perhaps 1 or 2 months when an older, fiesty woman came into my office to chat. She was much like the old woman used on Hallmarks Comics "Maxine" with the wirey gray hair and sarcastic wit. This was "E". I do believe she had some northern roots to her 'way back when' but she had lived in the south for at least 50-60 years when I met her.

After a bit of chit chat she unrolled the paper she had been holding in her hand while we talked. It was the previous weeks bulletin I had typed up. She had underlined any typo's she found (which there were a couple - I'm terrible at proofing my own work. Never could do it and still can't, as I 'see' what I 'think' should be there and not what truly is).

After a few compliments and telling me how wonderful it was to have me work there, and some other niceities she finally got to the point. It seems that in the 5 weeks (or so) that I had worked there, every time I had to write the name of this very prestigious and well known school and medical center I was spelling it wrong.

I, in my very northern and west coast stupidity had been spelling it 'Vanderbuilt' when in fact everyone knows it is Vanderbilt with no 'u'. "E" told me that 'everyone' had been noticing it but... in true Southern Charm, no one wanted to mention it to me! LOL.

"Well, bless her heart... she wouldn't know it's spelled that way. She's from the North you know!"

(And we ALL know what 'bless her heart' means in the South!) Bah ha ha.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Becoming a Family Story

It has been a long time since my sister and I have gotten in trouble together. Here we are almost middle-aged parents of two children each and separated by hundreds of miles. You would think we were over causing our parents any grief. What I’ve learned is…you really never quit causing your parents grief. New Years Day of 2005 was such a day.

The whole debacle began when I insisted to my husband, David, that we take a quick trip down to my parent’s house in northern Alabama in order to visit with my sister, Christy, and her family who were there visiting from South Carolina. It was a great reunion. Six adults and four children all in the same house and my mom and dad couldn’t have been happier.

The first day, after a breakfast of eggs, biscuits, gravy and sausage at my grandmother’s house next door, we all decided to take our traditional walk in the woods in order to walk off all those carbs. The winter woods were starkly beautiful where they hadn’t been logged and the views of the neighboring foothills were incredible.

Following the old road that Granddaddy made years before, we ended up at the bottom of a valley that we called the Strip Pit, which was once mined for coal. The kids played near the creek, jumping from rock to rock, and my sister and I hunted for fossils. After a while, everyone decided to head back to the farm, but Christy and I decided to follow the creek at the bottom of the valley and go for a long-overdue sister-sister walk.

She and I wandered around for a long time searching for more fossils. The large slate stones that had been unearthed during the mining and the later terraforming (for safety the state said) showed fossils such as ferns, sticks, small leaves, etc. We found all sizes of fossils and carried them as far as we could before leaving them on a big boulder. We said we'd come back for them later. As it turned out, we never did.

After a couple of hours, we decided to go back to the farm the way we usually went.... straight up the ridge - a big mistake. We started up the muddy hill full of energy; I was leading the way. Christy warned me not to climb so fast, but I didn't listen. I was having too much fun! I was home in Alabama!

Now the hills there are usually easy to climb...it's mostly pine trees, dogwoods, and other small trees, hardly any impediments to climbing. For an adult who is out of shape is another matter entirely. And to top it off, the woods weren't as I remembered them being. For one thing, most of the big pines were gone. Granddaddy had them all cut for lumber about seven years ago, so all that had come back were the hardwoods and lots and lots of brambles, or sticker bushes as Nanny calls them. The way was hard and very dense; the ground was slick with leaves and pine straw. We bumbled through the briars, through thickets of small trees, through a muddy stream, up some more of the damned mountain until I couldn't go anymore. To my surprise, instead of feeling sorry for myself, I found myself so happy at being there that I almost cried. I had such a feeling of contentment. Sitting there on the ridge in my home state of Alabama, feeling the dampness of the ground under me in the falling darkness, was the best place I could have been at that moment and, for a while, I was at peace.

Now being in the woods after dark without a flashlight is about the dumbest thing anyone can do. Granddaddy says those woods are full of pits that were dug years ago by the mining crews who were testing for coal and I believe him. The state came through a few years ago and bulldozed the area and covered up an airshaft/cave so no one who trespassed on Granddaddy’s land would get hurt or killed. But, up there where we were, the pines were still standing and it was already night, so it was just about impossible to see where we were going, much less look out for hidden holes in the ground.

Finally, we saw a lighter area ahead of us in the darkness. It could have been water or grass, we couldn't tell, so Christy, brave soul that she is, decided to go check it out. Luckily, it turned out to be the road Granddaddy bush-hogged for Nanny's golf-cart/Hummer. You can imagine the relief we felt when we realized that we were almost home. It had been only a couple of hours, most of it in the dark, but we were sure that the family was out looking for us and that we would be in tons of trouble. I mean, here we were, I'm close to 40, Christy not so much, and we were worried we would get it from the parents. And rightly so. Scared the crap out of them. Those woods are dangerous. I know cousins who did get lost in them and couldn't find their way back.

Christy turned to me and said, "Dana, the only thing about this that has me worried is that now we are going to be a "Story" in the family." And she hung her head...and then we laughed. We had heard plenty of "stories" in our family over the years.Sure enough, soon we heard a riding lawn mower motor, and with it was my uncle. He gave us a blistering talking-to and then got on the walkie-talkie to tell everyone that he had found us, especially my dad who was in the woods looking for us and had gone out so upset, that he had forgotten a flashlight as well.

Nanny was waiting for us at the top of the backfield. She just shook her head at us and said Momma was waiting on us in the house. The fact she hadn’t come outside to see us personally was a bad sign. Momma was mad! And I don’t blame her. We did something we would never want our kids to do and, hopefully, when they are older they will have forgotten about this whole mess. But I doubt it. We are a Story now, aren't we?



Dana can be found on her blog, Southern Gal Goes North.

Please note the sidebar

I have installed "Side Blog" into the sidebar and it's titled "In House News". From now on that's where news pertaining to the magazine itself (link problems, posting issues, etc.) will go so that I don't have to clog up the actual posting with HTML errors and such (which is what is there now!) Makes for a cleaner page I think!

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Southern Shoppin'

pennington's 2
This is my absolutely favoritest store in the whole wide world, Pennington Seed & Supply Co. Located just off the south side of court square, this little place has more of my favorite things than Wally World could ever hope to stock!

I chatted amicably with Mike, the owner, the other day when I was in to get my supply of sunflower and thistle seeds for my birdie friends. In these days of supersized everything and franchise madness, a family owned and operated business such as this one is a delightful treat to encounter. Summer is, of course, their off season. But watch out as fall approaches!

The front part of the store is filled with shelves full of seeds and gardening supplies. There is a piece of beautifully crafted yard furniture here and there, including the famous wooden rockers that my brother got for Christmas last year. Think Cracker Barrrel with more character. The sidewalk in front is lined with the finest trees of the season, and there are always hay bales and tomato stakes out front. In the spring and summer, the trees are ready to plant from rootballs. Flats and flats of annuals brighten up the sidewalk and extend all the way down the alley that runs beside the store. When their pansies show up, I know for sure that spring is right around the corner!

The fall is perhaps their busiest season due to the pecan business. With piles of bright orange pumpkins and oodles of mums out front, the back side of the building opens up off of the alley to receive the bags of pecans that locals harvest from their trees and bring down to sell or get cracked. If you've ever bought pecans, you know that the market is volatile depending on that year's crop. Since the lane to my road is lined with overlapping pecan trees, I've hauled many a burlap sack FULL down to Pennington's for cracking or to make an extra buck. Those guys can take one look at your pecans and grade them according to size and quality. The pecan business is still booming when the Christmas trees arrive to lean against the front of the colorfully painted building.

In between growing seasons, the store is a favorite supplier of all types of animal food ( goats, rabbits, you name it ) and the most gorgeous collection of windchimes and bird feeders you've ever seen. There is an entire wall dedicated to rakes and hoes and other gardening goodies. Cotton gloves, garden clogs and birdbaths are scattered amidst the bins of seed and feed.

Sure....I could get all that stuff at one of the superstores. But the ambience is magnificent downtown, and the owners haul your stuff to the car for a lady. Who could ask for anything more?
pennington's 3
Y'all come back now...ya hear?

Monday, July 25, 2005

A Yankee Boy Speaks about Heat

The South.
From my perch up north I see the shimmering heat. On my visits to the South I have seen the steam and felt the stifling air. When this Yankee thinks of the South I cannot help think of its heat and of ducking for air conditioning. I do know that days and nights and places and times do all change this. There are times that even up north we see the blaze. I’ve felt the shimmer here. It just doesn’t seem to cook us as thoroughly.

I can tell you about a Yankee transplant. He lived in the mountains of Vermont. Winters get cold there. The snow heaps over everything. This young man was a typical Northerner. A typical teenage Northerner. It wasn’t too cold for him. Wear his shorts through the drifts of snow to his car. Go play basketball in some crispy gym. Button your coat? It’s a blazing 3 degrees. Wind chill only makes it 15 below. That’s barely cold enough to turn the heat on, why should I button my coat?

When this youngster grew up he found himself living below the Snow Belt. Yes, Virginia became his home. South but not the Deep South. Plenty warm for a Yankee. In time he got himself married to a Texas girl and had a beautiful baby girl. The clan from the north couldn’t wait to see the newest child so we rented a huge passenger van and headed south one fine sunny April day. Snow barely lingering up here and the temperatures spoke of summer. We came dressed for the heat.

We couldn’t have asked for better weather. The sun was shining and the thermometer read low 70s. A slight breeze raced the sunshine through our hair. We reveled in the day. Yep, you could tell we were Yankees. We headed to the ocean dressed in shorts and t-shirts even as the day clouded and chilled a bit.

We dragged our hosts to the beach with us. They came along even as they looked at us as if we were crazy. Our Yankee transplant, who could wear shorts through the northern snow, decided it was a bit chilly and went looking for a sweater…

It don’t take long for a Yankee to become Southern.

Why is Southern Fashion Considered a "Don't"?

I got the inspiration to start this magazine from one simple article in another magazine, plus Entertainment Tonite.

The magazine, whose name I honestly do forget was doing the make-over do's and don'ts edition. They went on Entertainment Tonite and said the first place they thought of going, where every gal needs help, is Nascar. They made mention of the too tight jeans, the big hair, the overzealous makeup applications. They stated that they had a whole racetrack at their fingertips that needed help.

Basically, they were implying that Southern gals, who happen to all congregate at Nascar, are fashion "Don'ts".

This got me thinking. Most magazines are published in New York where fashion is top notch and always up to the minute. But that's not necessarily "real life". Why should all of us look like we live in New York? As Gretchen Wilson sings in Redneck Woman, "Well, you might think I'm trashy, a little too hardcore, But in my neck of the woods I'm just the girl next door."

I don't even just mean Southern girls here. There's country girls, surfer girls, working in a factory girls, etc. Why should all of these people try to conform to what "fashion" considers in and out? Most of us can't even afford it anyway.

As far as conforming to fashion, I personally don't want to look like I haven't eaten in 3 weeks and forgot to wash my hair since Christmas, but hey, that's just me.

Every region has it's own fashion, food, festivities, accent and image. The image is what makes the region different from another region. How boring would we be if we all looked and sounded exactly the same?! I think every area should keep to it's own traditions and fashions if they want.

Heck, consider it a "Southern fashion" instead of a "don't". I'm pretty sure big hair for women and mullets for men are gonna take a long time to go away in the South. So make it Southern fashion! Show us how to make that hair big without 45 pounds of Aqua-net instead of telling us to get rid of it. Show us the nice slim fitting jeans that still look like you poured yourself into them instead of just telling us that too tight jeans are tacky.

This is what got me started on the magazine. Let's have a place that celebrates real Southerners living real lives. Somewhere besides the "Don't" page of a New York magazine.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

For Chester

I was city born and city bred, and you just don't take a girl out of Miami, pluck her in the middle of the country, and expect her to know what's what. I was very impatient with the country. The people drove too slowly, spoke too slowly and they seemed to take their time with every single thing they DID! Six months after we moved out here, I had begun to resign myself to a whole new concept: the art of being laid back. It was a foreign term to me.

Miami, with it's freeways, expressways and major six lane highways, had become too busy and chaotic, too noisy for my taste... and yet this country business was at the extreme end of the spectrum. I needed to find my place, and the country wasn't it. I was lost.

Chester was a big, fat, beer bellied man with a sweaty red neck and a dirty pickup truck to boot. He laughed whenever he saw me, driving down the side roads on the way out to our 5 acres of delusional paradise. He'd always wave too, and nod his head or tip his baseball cap to me. The name on the cap said "Chester's Supply" and he wore it everywhere he went. I was well familiar with Chester... we ordered truckloads of fill dirt from him whenever we had the money. We were young and thinking about planning a family. Money was tight and precious. To this day, I can't believe we spent it on fill dirt. We needed the dirt, however. We had bought five acres of land on a lake up in North Florida, about 40 miles south and due west of Jacksonville. That's lake country, sits in the middle of Florida, where people talk with a slight drawl and take their sweet time when they've a good mind to.

Now, roughly two of those acres was swampland, but we didn't know that when we bought it. Our goal was to cut down scrub oaks and pines to make way for a house we wanted to build. The house would go on the high and dry part of the property, and the trees would be carried off to fill in the low wet areas. Thanks to the scrub bush, we couldn't see the the lake from where the house would go, so we began to construct a wide path through the low areas of the land. Every tree and branch that fell was topped with rocks and loads of fill dirt from Chester. We would get off work, grab a bite to eat and then start our "second job", cutting down those trees and clearing the scrub until dark. I learned to use a chain saw, something I am still proud of to this day.

Every morning we'd get up, long before the sun rose over the tall stretches of pine forest and head out, determined to beat the train on the way to work. This was important, otherwise we'd sit at the RR Crossing for what seemed like forever, and always end up late for work. Had a good 30 mile drive ahead of us, into nearby Gainesville, on a two lane road that always had one or two lazy pickup trucks casually making their way down the highway. That could slow you down until you found a way to pass 'em. So, we had to beat the train and pass the trucks and somehow skid into town just before work began for the day.

But one morning, the train got there first. It was the endless train, on and on it went. Rick and I looked at each other, silent in the cabin of the truck. I actually liked the ride into town, and the shortcut we'd take once in a while, with it's lazy roads that curved every which way, the tall oaks that spread into a canopy over the gravel. Sometimes we'd see deer or rabbits standing on the side of the road as we drove past.

But that morning, when the train reached the crossing, it brought all those years of South Florida bred impatience to a screeching halt. There is no hurrying in the south. You just learn to go with things and learn when to let them ride.

We heard noises then, and in the distance, we could see the headlights of a truck approaching. It came to a slow lingering stop and paused.
For a moment, nothing happened.... just us, the rushing train and the truck. Driver turned his keys off and got out. As always, my thoughts turned to the headlines:
"City Couple Slaughtered in the Boondocks."
"Serial killer emerges at RR Crossings.. public urged to keep windows closed and doors locked."

The man walked up to the window, and in the darkness, we could make out the unmistakeable looming figure of Chester. He nodded when we opened the window. Tipped his hat as always. " Long train" he drawled in that redneck manner of his. And then in the middle of the darkness before the sun began to rise... we found ourselves doing the very things we left Miami for... talking to mere aquaintances in the pre dawn hours as if it was just a natural thing to do. Only it wasn't natural for us.

Miami didn't work for us. The final straws began to break the day my car became stranded on the side of the highway on US1 and not a single person stopped to help. People honked their horns angrily at me, as if i'd invaded their space. I managed to coast the car home, without brakes, if only to get it off the highway and get out of their way. Non-English speaking sales clerks barely looked at us when we'd hand them money for the groceries. I felt like an invader in the town I'd grown up in, and I'd lost respect for what it had become. When we left, we were looking for a place where people stopped to help one another, and treated each other with respect and hospitality.

I didn't know it then, but the southern ways were growing on me. I was leaving behind the speed of the the city and forming a deep appreciation for that one southern quality that I'd probably been looking for all my life... that ability to stop and reflect, to talk to your neighbors, whomever they might be. I believe the South has a way of working it's way into your soul, a little at a time. And once it's planted in there, it's there for good, no matter where life takes you.

In all the years to come, I have found that the South taught me to slow down some... one just can't speed through life when the roads are winding and turning, or you'll miss the scenery along the way. Where there are people like Chester, who would get out of his truck in the early morning and stop to chat awhile, that's the South. That's where my heart will always be.

Friday, July 22, 2005

An Observation in Little Men

Having lived in the north, then on the West Coast, then the South and then the North and then the Midwest I've had a little moment of 'hmph' enter my head. (You know, when you talk to yourself and you think of something and then say "hmmmmph, I didn't realize that before" happen).

I do believe that no matter where you are 'in the South', if you are in a crowd of at least 20 people that include parents and young boy-children you could call out "Little Man!" and at least 4 little guys would answer.

They don't do that in the North or the West Coast. Little guys are often called "Buddy" as in 'hey buddy did you get a new puppy?' or 'hey bud, time to come in for dinner' but down south any boy child under the age of 4 seems to answer to "Little Man".

We don't call our kids that up here. Hmmmmph.

Gettin' My Hair Done

I had my hair 'done' yesterday. That's what we southern ladies do-we get our hair done. It was my first appointment with a new hairdresser, excuse me, stylist, that I have been trying to get in with for a couple of years. The wait was worth it.

Why did it take so long to get an appointment with the fellow, you ask? Because I had to bide my time and wait until I met and got to know someone who was already one of his clients. I figured that out right off the bat the one time I stepped into his shop a couple of years ago and his first question to me was "Who sent you here, darlin?". Because around here, it's about who you know and who knows you.

So I plundered along, getting my hair cut at...I hate to admit it, the mall. Even my mother, who has thrown off so many of the old southern lady restrictions (she's worn pants to church, for example), was appalled. Of course, she still gets her hair done (translation-crafted into a football helmet hairsprayed to within an inch of its life) once a week. The idea of my not having a regular hairdresser and a standing appointment was anathema to her.

Then one day, I was smiled upon. I began a new job with a group of wonderful people who do not make going in every day a chore and a constant source of distress and worry. Including one wonderful gal who has been a client of said Stylist for years. I will be beholden to her to my dying day because she hooked me up, as the kids say.

And if I do say so myself, I left there feeling pretty. Had to ride on over to Belk and stroll around, just to show myself off. Well that and buy a summer-to-fall handbag.

Now I've thrown off many of the southern ladyisms myself, such as never leaving the house unless in full makeup-which includes walking to the mailbox. But I have to admit to a calming sense of wellbeing in no longer being a hairdresser orphan.

Letters from Camp Chillmawilly


Ah yeah, it’s summertime and the living’s easy. Yall know how us folks in the South love to ‘recreate’, and being ‘natural’ people we do it best while in the great outdoors right up next to the soft bosom of Mother Nature herself. I’m including a photo with this blog post for illustration purposes and to embellish the overall presentation. And yes, this photo is the real deal. It was not ‘found’ on the internet somewhere and used here as a joke. This is an actual photo of the actual campsite of my actual close relative.


Just because we enjoy being outdoors don’t necessarily mean we enjoy the heat and humidity, as you can see from the photo. And yes folks, it IS the heat and not just the humidity. I’m using this photo on ‘loan’ from my close relative to whom I have promised complete anonymity to in order to protect the guilty parties. It’s not that she would care at all because she wears her redneckness like a badge of honor. I just thought it best in the tradition of Southern manners not to point any fingers while I’m airing our family laundry.

Above all else, rednecks are a resourceful bunch. How do you think duct tape became so popular? Heck you can find that stuff in any convenience store in the South. It’s even crossed over as a fashion statement and comes in colors now, including camouflage. But look closely at that photo friends, do you see the full-blown whole-house, Trane central air conditioning unit? That sweet puppy is set up at the camp site, complete with individual ducting to each tent, and yes it works perfectly!

Now I defy anyone to suggest that rednecks lack style. This, friends and neighbors, is how ‘well-to-do’ rednecks go camping, and nope my sweet young relative did not just win the lottery, she just spends her money wisely. You know how heat and humidity can wreck fresh makeup and a good hairdo. She always says it don’t cost a nickel more to go first class and her camping trips are just one example of that philosophy. You should see her decorate for Christmas; she has a flare for the ornate and an enthusiasm for quantity.

Yep, this air conditioned campsite is a sweet setup alright, and the bar & grill that goes with it is equally as classy. There’s plenty of finger licking good food and ice cold beverages for any taste. That’ll have to be another story though, ‘cause this is gonna wind up this week’s letter from Camp Chillmawilly. It’s time for a nice cool midday siesta in the command tent over there.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

"Up Laurel"

There is an area close to where I live where the climbing, winding roads carry you into a seemingly endless path of breathtaking veiws, where the mountains seem to kiss the clouds and the faint sounds of bluegrass being played on the front porches of crooked little shacks makes your heart release a deep sigh for the kinfolk who walked these hills before us. Collectively the area is known as Shelton Laurel, with division names like Upper Laurel, Little Laurel, Big Ivy, Cutshalltown and Sodom. Before the arrival of European settlers, this was home to the Oconaluftee tribe of the Cherokee. Legends abound about the remote area, tales of a Civil War massacre, murders, moonshine stills, hidden silver mines and a race of dark skinned people called Melungeons. Even now, tourists and other "outsiders" are warned not to venture into those hills after dark, colorful locals fitting every stereotype enjoying the frightful looks their stories are able to instill. For generations, this has also been the home of my father's family, a side of my family I never really got to know, not until now.

Two years ago my daughter left home to attend college. I spent my evenings lost, not accustomed to the ear splitting silence and loneliness. We talked via instant messenger a lot, so I was spending most of my time in front of the computer and somehow I found my way onto a genealogical research site. I started doing searches with the little bit of information I had about my father's family and what began as a way to kill time has turned into a engaging hobby, bordering on obsession. I'd always assumed that because my grandmother's maiden name was Davis, we were decendants of European immigrants, farmers and laborors, with a tiny bit of Native American mixed in as explanation for my cousins' huge brown doe-like eyes and our odd colored complexions. Although it's only a small part of the story,some of our forefathers (or foremothers) were rumored to be Cherokee, one of which is the ancestor of probably three fourths of the current residents of Shelton Laurel.

There were two brothers, David and Roderick Shelton, who for reasons unknown, moved to the remote mountains of Western North Carolina in the late 1700's. Much debate has ensued over the years as to which brother was actually the first to settle there, depending on which one your family lays claim to be decended from. One legend says that David lived in the hollowed out trunk of a huge old tree until his cabin was completed, making him the first. Regardless of who came first, our family is from Roderick. When he arrived from Virginia, he had a woman with him. Some say she was his wife, others say she was merely his latest in a long list of "companions," a Cherokee woman who went by the name of Glumdaclitch.

I knew right away that "Glumdaclitch" couldn't be an authentic Native American name. Had it been "Weeping Waters" or "Running Squirrel", or even "Runs With Sharp Sticks and Pokes Eye Out" maybe I wouldn't have been as suspicious. I ran a search (when in doubt, Google it!!) and found that Glumdaclitch was the name of a character from Gulliver's Travels, the giant girl who took him in and kept him in a doll house (I never read the book, but I saw the animanted version once). One can only imagine that perhaps our Glumdaclitch was a tall woman in a strange land, thus earning her the name. The union of Roderick and Glumdaclitch, regardless of the legality or moral standard it embraced, produced children, but not my ancestors. Roderick enjoyed the company of a variety of women, our family resulting from his relationship with a lady named Ursula (although some people say Ursula was actually Glumdaclitch, but we could argue that point 'til the proverbial cows come home.)

Glumdaclitch, it is tactfully documented, "cohabitated with a number of gentlemen, producing several children with different last names." One of her children, George Washington "Rock" Franklin, the son of one Solomon Stanton, is my sixth great grandfather. Solomon remains a mystery, the only mention of him I can find is as the father of George. Glumdaclitch, who was at one time married, or otherwise promised to, a Franklin, took a liking to the name and kept it, thus explaining George's last name. If you drive "up Laurel" as it is called here, way back up in the hills and turn off on to an unpaved road, which really isn't much more than an old trail, you're lead up to the top of the mountain, through trees and past old homesteads where you'll find hidden among the laurel branches and briar thickets an old cemetary. A simple chiseled rock lies there bearing the name "George Washington Rock Franklin" and the date he died, 11/2/1886.

It seems that the Franklins, the Sheltons and eventually the Sams were prolific breeders, but being a remote mountain community with very little visitors from the outside, the only suitors available to them were those they'd known all their lives. It's common to hear people say you can't marry first or second cousins but "after third it don't count." It happened in my family more than I can accurately keep track of. I was more than a little shaken when I discovered that a one of George's grandchildren married one of Roderick's great grandchildren, who were the parents of my great great great grandfather Peter Franklin (does it even really still BRANCH at this point?) Peter went on to marry Martha Stanton, who's line dead ends with her father William. For this I am truely thankful, because I KNOW that were I to search beyond William, he would most suredly be of some relation to Solomon and then I would have to find the nearest cliff, of which there is no short supply here and promptly toss myself into the French Broad River to my certain death. That I am even able to walk upright is truly a medical mystery.
Granted, these matrimonial cousins were a few generations back, but it didn't stop there. My grandmother's mother and my grandfather's mother shared the same maiden name, Sams, and although the actual status of their relation is still unknown, if they weren't first cousins, they were at least related.

Before moving here 13 years ago, I thought the rumors of inbreeding in the mountains were a myth, a stereotype, something that may occur occasionally but not a common practice. Imagine my surprise. We have to keep in mind though, if these things hadn't happened exactly as they did, I simply would not exist. We have to believe that everything happens for a reason, even those things we don't understand. I'm not ashamed of my ancestors, I hear their whispers in the trees and their wisdom in my heart. Decisions they made in their lives which may have caused others to utter insults about them behind closed doors or made their lives more difficult had an amazing end result. All I have to do is look at my beautiful daughter's big blue eyes and I know my ancestors travelled these old mountain roads for a reason.

South of July

Mama always told me not to wish my life away. About 10/12 of the time I've listened. The other 2/12ths happen between July 4th and Labor Day, and, bless her heart...she can relate. Neither of us do the heat well. That's an unfortunate trait for lovely native flowers of the south.

Summer in Tennessee begins gently, with a tease, sometime in the month of May. While the northerners are still wearing jackets, we're prancing around in shorts and tank tops planting our gardens and scouting out a place to swim and fish...preferably both at the same spot. After Easter, it's full speed ahead on sheddin' clothes.

I blame the misery on hurricane season. It seems like from about the middle of June on out ad finitum the humidity just takes your breath away and makes wearing makeup and/or shoes an impossible feat. As the south winds blow up from the Gulf dumping rain on us, the crab grass goes wild! Either that or every dang thing dies from drought. Take your pick, because we have a lottery here.

This year on the farm, the crops look good for a change. It's perfect cotton and bean weather, though the corn was a bit dry before the rains came along. We're dead in the middle of the dog days, when iced fruit tea is a treat and the water hose and cold showers are everybody's delight. This too, shall pass.

There is a comfort in living where there are four distinct seasons, even if one or two of them only last a week. Tennessee is temperate most of the time, except during El Ninos or other such extreme events of the Weather Channel variety. We can expect surprise snowfalls anytime from Nov 1st on and plenty of color in between. The very best snows are Christmas ones that come out of nowhere and fall gently on the wreaths with red bows outside the church.

Spring begins in late February and knocks itself out in full April glory. Out come the grills and charcoal and into the boxes with those sweats! Can you say "grow it?" Since it's been a cold winter, most of us are out of shape and drag ourselves through the paces of the first few weeks of rebirth.

Through all of these seasons we remember to say "Thank you" and "How's yer Mama'n'them" and "Bless your heart." It's a southern thang we rarely forget, even when it's hot as hades or cold as a witches you-know-what.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Many, Many Thanks

Gemmak and crew have done a terrific job with the design of this site. They worked quite hard on it and I'm very pleased! Their link is at the bottom of the sidebar and I highly recommend them if you want any re-designs done on your own site!

Thanks ya'll!

What Makes Southerners Act The Way We Do?

I’ve seen the word ‘diplomat’ described as; ‘A person who is capable of stepping on someone’s toes and never scuffing their shoe shine.’ I like to think that definition was borrowed from a Southernism used to describe us natives of the South. There are a lot of Good Ol’ Boys and Good Ol’ Gals capable of this same charming wit. We use this talent to keep the non-Southerners from tormenting us to death with their rude comments and snide attacks at our down home nature. Or as my mother used to say about these people, to keep them from ‘wearing out their welcome’.

One sweet young thing I know, a real Southern Lady, has a mouth like a switchblade. She can slice you to the bone a half dozen times with her wit before you realize it, and yet leave your pride and character untouched. It’s a gift, if you cross us with a snide remark or try to one up us with your egotism don’t be surprised if it leaves you stunned and mentally bleeding while we stand there never loosing our smile.

Southerners tend to be more laid back than those folks from big cities up North. We just don’t let things bother us like they do. I guess is has to do with the way a cool summer breeze smells when it blows through the blooms on the Magnolias, and the way it refreshes you from the humid afternoon haze. It’s like a natural spa for your mind and body. Any breeze that blows through the streets of those big cities carries a different odor and texture and tends to react with your senses in a harsh and painful way. I can understand how it would tend to keep a person on edge all the time.

We just have a much better quality of life in the South, free of the demands of the hustle and bustle that folks from up North have to live with. While the streets of New York are lined with expensive shopping districts and flashy entertainment venues we have flea markets and theme festivals, neither of which you have to get dressed up for or spend a lot of money at. They have Central Park and we have, well we have everything South of Maryland, down across Tennessee and Arkansas. There's cow pastures and corn fields as far as you can drive, dotted along the way with roadside produce stands selling fresh vegetables and our regional delicacy, boiled peanuts.

Now I am not putting down those folks that live up North, bless their hearts, they can’t help it if that’s where they were born or where they chose to run off to. I’m just pointing out how what we have in the South is what makes us what we are. We enjoy the simpler things of life that cost so little but make up so much of our rich personalities. Things like long tables of fried chicken, potato salad and black-eyed peas laid out at a Southern Baptist Homecoming dinner, or watermelons cut and set out on newspapers on the picnic table. Buying homemade soap and fried pies at an arts and crafts festival held in someone’s pasture, or going to an evening rodeo under the lights down at the fairgrounds. Southerners are big on family and get-togethers. We love to eat and fellowship, it’s what we learn from the time we can crawl across Grandma’s kitchen floor.

The Southerner is a social animal of the first order, born, raised and schooled in the tradition of getting together just for the sake of it.
This was where the term ‘Southern Hospitality’ was born. A Good Ol’ Gal is taught how to make and serve sweet iced tea before she is taught her ABCs. Making sure your guests are well provided for is the 11th commandment to Southerners. A Good Ol’ Boy knows that entertainment is crucial to a social event and that’s how this whole mud bogging, tractor pulling, skeet shooting in the pasture with a box of K-Mart clays and a hand thrower image of us Southern boys came about.

We’re a phenomenon of casual living, at times a spectacle of hilarity and always a treasure of kindheartedness. That’s what makes us act the way we do. There’s a lot of truth to the saying; ‘It’s a Southern thing, you wouldn’t understand’. I guess folks from up North might not understand us, there are times when I’m not so sure about some of us myself, but that diversity is what makes a good horse race.

Welcome to Dew on the Kudzu!


It was a close race, but in the end, Dew on the Kudzu won as the new name for this here magazine.

My "design team" also pointed out that there were two books on the market with "The Kudzu Chronicles" in the wording so that was a factor.

Please use this very nice logo button that Bubba made us to link to this site.

The new design is being worked on with much sweat and swearing by "Design a Blog" and should be up shortly.

Now, let's get onto the important business of writing!

Sunday, July 17, 2005

A Yankee Boy Speaks….

I am a Yankee. …or am I?
I am a New Yorker. …or am I?
I am a New Englander. …or am I?


Culture abounds all over. Some of it has good connotations and some of it has bad. You can hear people label you with your cultural characteristics as a compliment or as a criticism.

I grew up in Western New York and we had a drink that we called pop. It came in all sorts of flavors and it was sparkling with bubbles. When I moved east I learned that this word was never used to describe this drink. In fact this word was never really used except maybe to describe the action of suddenly deflating a bubble or balloon. The drink was a soda. Words and expressions that give you sudden or bizarre looks are quickly discarded. I now use the term soda and will be one of those people that look at you strangely if you use the term pop. From what I understand Southerners call all these soft drinks a Coke.

Language isn’t the only demarcation. We find these cultural lines drawn by personalities as well. People see New Yorkers as rushing around living too fast. We don’t know how to relax. The cultural connotation is that we are all tight asses. The culture perception of southerners is that they move way too slow. The critical connotation is that southerners are lazy. New York men are rude and self centered while Southern gentleman are the epitome of charm.

Cultural lines are fuzzy at best and are used broadly by people. Who exactly are Southerners? Traveling south do I start labeling everyone a Southerner once I cross the Mason-Dixon line? There are too many people living in Maryland that just don’t act Southern. They don’t talk Southern. They don’t look Southern.

Is Dixie a state of mind?

They say New York is a state of mind.

… I grew up in western New York State. Closer to the Midwestern states than to the east. When I grew up I moved to the opposite side of the state. I married a lady from Vermont. We live on the border of the two states. From the Vermont’s point of view we are flatlanders and always will be flatlanders. I am not a New Englander. From the world’s point of view the only New York is New York City. I am and never will be a New Yorker. Even as I sit here in my home having lived here for over 15 years, I will never be a local. Some cliques and groups will speak around me. I am an outsider living in a land that is in between.

As I gaze down at Dixie I see areas that are filled with transplants such as me. Florida is a whole state that has virtually lost its Dixie status. Atlanta is filled with Northern bankers making it more like a northern city than a Southern town. How many generations do you need before you can be included in a culture.

Acceptance. Acceptance of who we are and where we fit in is a complicated venture. You can’t take a map and draw circles neatly labeling each with a nifty word. You can’t take a list of frequently used words and determine a person’s classification. You can’t even take musical tastes and use that because if you did you would see that my heart belongs to Southern Rock.

We can however take this rich culture and remember stories from our past. You share yours and I’ll share mine. Yours will have the flavor of the south. Mine will have the flavor of the north. What they will show is that we all have roots that help shape who we are. Roots that transcend those labels. You’ll find a few of your roots will pass into the north and I’ll find a few of mine will pass into the south.

At times I hope that you can see me as Southern Gentleman because there is a little Dixie in all of us.

A Guest Recipe from Gloria

Gloria's Dee-licious Southern Fried Chicken

My hubby Paul—I'm His First Wife—told me you were starting up a southern living magazine. When I heard that, I wanted to share a good Southern recipe that I learned from my mama, who learned it from her mama, and so on. I already passed it on to my girls and they do it real good, too.

I was born in Mississippi and then was raised in Georgia in the 40s, 50s and early 60s. When it came time for me to learn how to cook, it was just natural that I become a good Southern cook. One of the things that every Southern lady needs to master is how to fry good Southern fried chicken.

My mama taught me well because when my hubby took me out West, all my western friends were always complimentary when they ate the fried chicken that my mama taught me to fix.

Here is the recipe. Take a whole chicken, cut it in pieces with the breast split in two, unless it is really large, and then the breast would be split into three pieces. Wash the individual pieces. Salt and pepper real good. Then simply dip each piece into flour. I have mostly used white flour, but rice flour makes a great coating as well. Don’t put anything else on it; just salt, pepper and flour.

Preheat your oil, (plenty of it) in a black cast iron skillet. Turn it up to high, then put in the chicken pieces when the oil gets hot. Then after a couple of minutes of frying on high, turn down to medium high. It gives the chicken time to cook inside without burning it. Cook the chicken at that heat, turning the pieces after they start browning. When the chicken has cooked on the second side and starts to brown, then turn up the heat to high (on a gas stove, maybe just a little more than medium high on electric). Fry the chicken until it turns a golden orange. At this point, the chicken should be done and quite crispy. Never cover the chicken.

The secrets are:

  • Black cast iron skillet
  • Lots of oil
  • Cook on higher than normal heat, starting and ending on high. It takes looking after.
  • Make sure the chicken has that golden orange look.
  • Don’t ever put a cover on it.
All ya’ll enjoy the wonderful recipe my mama taught me.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

Happy Birthday Billie G

In just a few hours my Daddy will be 74 years young. I know that 'cuz I can do the math from 1931 to the present. Heh..I may be blonde, but I ain't dumb. He was born way back when in Mississippi and his family migrated up here to West Tennessee where he grew up as a Future Farmer of America. And what a farmer he's been!
stafford family This is him with the fam back in the day. He had 3 sisters, two of which are still living and love him to death. HIS daddy was a sharecropper

My favorite story about Daddy and the sisters is when he broke his arms falling out of a barn loft....both of 'em. Poor thang got his every need tended to by a gaggle of girls for as long as the casts were on. Can you imagine the humiliation for a young boy??

His day job was with the USDA tracking crop bugs. Boll weevil and Japanese beetle were in my vocabulary early on. Much later, closer to retirement, he traveled to Key West and other ports to meet the "boat people" and inspect their treasures for plant pests. His dream has always been in his alternative lifestyle, though.

Since I was a baby, he's been the manager of the farm where we live. It's a virtual paradise of wildlife hiding among the hills and low spots surrounded by a muddy river that feeds the land. Floods and droughts come and go, depending on mother nature. That's a gamble that farmers take when they embrace the dream of growing stuff.

I've written about him many times, most recently here . One time I wrote an essay nominating him as a Great American. We didn't win that one. Or maybe we did.

Friday, July 15, 2005

Welcome to a New Magazine!

Hello, I'm your editor, Idgie.

I have decided to create an online magazine for all things Southern. I've noticed in other magazines that Southern Flavor and Flair seems to be considered "A Don't" or way behind the times, or just plain "hick-ish".

So I've decided we need our own magazine celebrating our fashion, our hobbies, the way we Southerners look at life.

I hope you'll come and join me, set a spell, have some sweet tea on the porch swing and get ready for some story telling and shared good times.

I also need writers - if you want to join, come on over!