All Hallows Eve
A night of witches
And warlocks
And Celtic fires burning
Dark shapes prancing,
Entreating spirits
For a good harvest
In an ancient language
To keep the dead
in their graves.
Now,
Black cat crosses
In front of my shadow,
While the yellow moon
Grins down
And sheds little light
On the bacchanalia below.
All Hallows Eve,
A time for spirits,
Graveyards
And ghouls.
Zombies creeping
From their graves
To feast on flesh,
Blood-suckers feeding
Like leeches.
I close my eyes,
Gulp
And hold out my bag
For the treats to come
While the whispering wind
Blows in my ear
And tells me of horrors
And scares me to my bones.

A Halloween Tale

written by:
Jen
www.gadgeteer.net/southgirl/

A remember a time when I was 12 years old, my brother and I had gone to spend the weekend with my dad. It was in the Fall, and I imagine it was close to Halloween. We had been invited to a weenie roast , and bonfire that particular weekend. There was a whole big group of people going.

I remember all the kids were packed in the back of one truck, and we had to
keep a blanket over us, because it was so cold. We would peak out every now and then to see where we were, but it was so dark you couldn't see.

It was black as night by 5pm that time of year. It seemed like they drove forever, where were they taking us? We are were all excited, and a little bit scared. I mean we were going to be out in the woods....at night!!

Our imaginations were going crazy. I was the biggest scaredy cat there ever was, and all I could think of was some mass murderer was stalking us,
and would slay us all.

It turns out they were driving us somewhere on the outskirts of Fayetteville, Alabama, and I mean we were out in the middle of no where. We were supposedly close by to this bridge that they referred to as "Gloria's Bridge". An urban legend place , where some poor woman named Gloria had met her end. I don't remember the story very well now, but I know that just made the whole place a whole lot creepier.

We got there finally. Someone had got there a head of the rest of us, and
had lit the big bon fire. I was so glad, because I was freezing. We were all having a great time. Enjoying the fire, roasting weenies, and marshmallows. It seemed so late, but it was probably only about 7pm. It was so dark, and creepy.

Then all of a sudden out of no where there was this blood curdling scream.... I swear it was a woman. You had never seen a group of adults and kids pack up so quick in your life.


They say a cougar makes a sound like a screaming woman. So was it a cougar? or was it Gloria? I guess we will never know...

All I can say is that I was glad to be out of those woods. I don't think I slept a wink that night, and I don't recall ever going out to the Fayetteville woods ever again.

Happy Halloween!

Spanish Town Porch

It occurs to me as I watch the January rain come down


in hard, grey Saturday afternoon sheets,


That I have loved these streets with


their damp laughter and dusty sighs,


I have savored moments spent under


this skeletal canopy, with its thin silvery specters


so many ghosts crowded into an empty doorway,


peering down in silence at laughing couples running


hand-in-hand down January's crooked sidewalk,


the call of calliope in pursuit of them


as they rush towards dry rooms and warm kisses.

"Downtown" is Gone Forever

Written by Kenju:



A post I read yesterday got me to thinking about the downtown area of the town I grew up in.

I'll never forget the first time I was allowed to walk through town alone; I asked if I could walk to my grandmother's house which was a good mile and a half away. I was 6 or 7, and I felt so grown-up. Little did I know that my Mom was following me in the car, about a block behind.

The following summer, when I was playing with a group of friends, we went onto a bridge near our houses and I stuck my head through the bars of the railings to see what was in the water beneath the bridge. Stupid me couldn't pull my head back through the bars and the fire department had to be called. They finally coaxed me out by having me twist my head to the side. I like to say now that my ears were so big I couldn't pull my head out. Maybe that's why an old boyfriend told me that when my hair was in a ponytail, I looked like a Cadillac head-on with the front doors open.

I remember a diner in town, called the Quarrier Diner. I took some classes in a building across the street from the diner, and every morning we would order grilled sweet rolls. I can still conjure up their taste - as near to Heaven as I am likely to get. Back then I could eat stuff like that everyday and never gain an ounce. They also had excellent barbecue sandwiches, and I have never been able to find another one like it. Speaking of "Quarrier". I remember reading that the only street in the world with that name is in Charleston, WV.

I used to work in the Diamond Department Store, multi-floored and fabulous, back in the 50's. I started there as a member of their "College Board" one summer and worked as a gift wrapper,model, sales clerk and finally their "Personal Shopper". This was a great job, as I got to spend other people's money buying gifts for people they didn't have the time or the inclination to shop for. It was a little like going out on a treasure hunt each time we had an order, and some were easier to fill than others. Once a young man came in to buy Christmas gifts for his fiancee, and I helped him spend $100, which was a whopping sum back in the day. Turns out she had been one of my junior high school classmates, and she loved all the stuff I picked out for her. The Diamond had a snack bar as well as a cafeteria, and you could run into many people you knew by eating there. If I had a dime for every time I sat at that counter...........

I used to go to the local Woolworth's Five and Dime (as they used to be called) and buy doll clothes, candy, gum and toys. That store had a smell that permeated the whole building, and I think it was stale hot-dog chili, emanating from the lunch counter. I spent many an hour there, looking and dreaming as only a small girl can. I also spent many hours in the library. In the summer, Mom would take me there every week, and I would check-out 10-12 books and read every one before they were due.

Parades in small towns are usually fun; as a member of the local "Rainbow Girls" close-order drill team, I marched in many parades, up and down "The Boulevard", which is the main drag, beside the Kanawha River. When we came to the viewing stand, usually filled by city dignitaries (or wannabees), we would stop and show off our latest drill, except that we were holding batons, not guns. Two years ago, I got to see the Marine Corps Drill Team perform at Marine Headquarters in DC and they did it with such style and grace it was amazing. They hold real guns, with bayonets attached. Part of their drill is to toss those guns back and forth to each other, and viewers are certain that someone will lose a body part, but it appears they seldom, if ever, make a mistake.

I said in the title that downtown was gone forever. In Charleston, it isn't gone as completely as in some other cities. The reason is that space is so limited there, due to the rivers and mountains that stores and malls only have just so much area to build in. Consequently, there still remains a vestige of the way it used to be. But in my mind, it is gone forever.

Too bad that small town America has gone "poof" like smoke from a bonfire.

Faded Photographs

By Cappy Hall Rearick

Sitting cross legged on the floor, I am surrounded by a lifetime of people: My grandparents, now gone up to that Southern Baptist Revival in the sky, aunts, uncles, even ex-husbands. I look across the cardboard box full of photos at my grandson, Burns, who is plundering through the years along with me. He glances up from time to time to ask, “Now who is this person?” or “Mammy! That is not you!” before keeling over in a fit of giggles.

“Well, don’t laugh too hard, you little twit. Here you are the day you were born.” I stick the picture under his nose and he lets out a howl of denial, refusing to claim any connection. “I never looked like that in my life!”

I glance at it again and laugh. “My mistake, Sweetie. I should have recognized that picture of Winston Churchill.”

“Winston who?”

My eyes roll heavenward as I mutter something about history not being taught nowadays. Nine years old and he doesn’t know who Sir Winston is?

I delve into the box until I find another picture of Burns. This time he has chocolate icing all over his face because his parents thought he should have an entire cake to eat all by himself on his first birthday. They knew he would just play in it and he didn’t disappoint. In went the hands, out came the hands, down went the face. Just like a puppy.

“No way!” He is screaming with laughter.

“Way!” I reply. “You’re the only kid on the planet who doesn’t like chocolate, right? Pigging out on chocolate will always do that to you unless you’re a woman.”

He’s busy fishing around for more shots of me with bouffant hair or Babe strutting his stuff in a North Carolina State football uniform. He spies a school picture of his dad with horn rimmed glasses and a smarmy smile.

“Look at this geek!” More laughter.

I look at it and shake my head. My oldest son was indeed a bookworm, but never a geek. He wore glasses and battled zits until he hit his growth spurt and said goodbye to baby fat. That’s when the Three C’s kicked in. Contact lens, Clearasil and Connie, all in the same year.

“Who’s this guy?” Burns wants to know.

I study it for a little bit before recognizing the small boy grinning with no front teeth. “That’s my cousin Allan. He used to love looking at old photos when he came to my mother’s house. He was such a sweet boy. Every time he’d look at a photograph, he’d start bawling. Even if he didn’t know the person in the picture, he’d still tune up and cry.”

Burns looks up at me and cocks his head. “Mammy! You’re telling me a tall tale.”

“No, I’m not. It’s the honest truth.”

“He cried every time? Why’d he do that?”

“Nobody could figure it out. I guess the pictures must have made him feel nostalgic; maybe a little bit sad. He may have felt lonesome because he wasn’t in most of them. They were all taken long before he was born.”

I start to laugh, remembering. “Lord, we were so awful to Allan. We’d get him to look at pictures just to make him cry!”

The boy seated across from me on the floor is quietly gazing at another photo of his daddy and my youngest son, taken back in the sixties. I keep rooting around in the box until I realize the child is no longer laughing out loud.

“Burns? You okay, Sweetie?”

He is staring hard at the picture in his hands. Carefully, he puts it down and looks up just in time for me to see the first tear as it begins to spread over his freckled cheek.
“Aw, Sweetie, what’s the matter?” I reach across the box to wipe away his tear with my thumb.
“I understand why your cousin cried when he looked at pictures, Mammy.”

“You do?”

He nods his thick head of wavy red hair. “Old pictures kinda make me want to cry, too.”
I smile because I am a grandmother and that particular chapter was fully covered in the “How To Be A Granny” instruction book, the one that came stapled to the bottoms of all my grandchildren as they emerged from the womb.

Quickly, I get up off the floor and walk to the stairway landing.

“Babe! Can you come up here and bring the camera with you?”

He mumbles, “This better be good.”

By the time Babe gets upstairs, Burns and I are back down on the floor, sorting through the box again. I put my arms around this dear child and kiss him and hug him until he begs for mercy and at that moment, Babe snaps the picture.

Maybe years from now another little boy will look at it, tear up and say, “Old photos always make me want to cry.”

Amazin' Grace

It’s true..there’s a special bond between me and my maternal grandmother. I never understood exactly why, except that I was the first in a long line of chilren’ who called her Gaga. I suppose that could have been short for Geraldine, but most likely it was the first gibberish spoken by the royal princess to the queen of the clan.

Geraldine Inez grew up, though not spoiled, living the good life as the only child of her parents Ethel and Oscar Hamilton. Years later when they were both gone, Gaga moved into their home on Pate Street. When I would spend the night with her as a kid, I slept in the back bedroom where a picture of her daddy, Oskie stared at me through wire- rimmed spectacles in the dark of the night. The door to the dirt basement was in that room as well. Even though I knew there was nothing down there except plastic poinsettias for the cemetery, I always imagined that the ghost of Oskie was restlessly pacing the steps marking time until his return to scare the wits out of me.
Geraldine married as a demure sixteen year old, to a handsome gent named Harold who was an accomplished musician in a traveling band. As far as I knew, she never even had a date following his death at age 45 from heart disease. They were totally and completely in love and they had four children with two sisters surviving today. Harold, my Pawpaw, gave up life on the road with the band and settled down to raise that family as a prominent businessman who owned a Sinclair station and proudly wore the uniform. I’ve never met a soul who had anything but admiring words to say about him…as a merchant or just as a person. I was three when he died, but I still remember the special times that we spent together. Or maybe I’ve just heard about them enough that I think I remember ‘em.

There was money for the family when he died….loads of it. Gaga ran the business of managing his real estate holdings for many years. The only boy and the baby of the bunch was her weak spot when it came to money. As far as I know, he never had a real payin’ job prior to his death at the age of 36. What Gaga didn’t spend on traveling and spoiling us kids, he drank and drugged away. Her solemn promise to me was to take me to visit the places that she had cruised on the Queen Mary to visit in Europe when I graduated from high school.

Graduation came and went and, well. You know how things happen. By then she was depending on my Mama and Aunt Nancy to keep her life in the middle of the road , so to speak. She got a job at the hospital where I now work, and hung on until mandatory retirement at the age of 70. All of the property was sold to pay the debts of a lifetime of high living and Gaga moved from the pretty homes she had known into an assisted living facility at her girls’ expense. It was a right nice place with a private apartment for her, close to the entrance. That came in handy when she gave me her dining room table and chairs, with a china cabinet to boot. I got the silver too. Lucky me.

The night that Gaga died, we were all camped out in the waiting room of the intensive care unit waiting for her passage to glory. The nurses, being a compassionate lot, allowed us free visitation during her last hours. Death don’t come easy, even when you’re pumped full of morphine. The midnight hour came and went as we trekked down the hall at sporadic intervals. Gaga was restless and weary, doing the work of dying. Around three in the mornin’, something woke me up. Walking in my socked feet into her cubicle, I listened to her moan and suffer. My alto voice was in good shape then, and I crept up to her bedside and held her hand as I sang “Amazing Grace” quietly next to her ear. The fidgeting stopped and she became peaceful as a lamb. And you know what? It was right then and there that I knew all was well. To this day, when I get weary and restless and afraid I can hear my own alto voice singing that song solo, just as clear and bright as if were right here and now.

Summer Memories

By Kenju
www.justaskjudy.blogspot.com

I love recalling my favorite summer memories; evoking warm and wonderful feelings of times spent in nature, solitary and carefree.

As a youngster, summers were spent riding my bike, playing tag, hide-and-seek, and all the other games that kids play. Catching lightning bugs was a favorite pasttime; I loved going out at night after dinner and feeling the warm breezes on my skin, while running through the yards with a mason jar looking for bugs. Since there was no TV yet, we spent a lot of time in a porch swing, talking about the day, remembering the past, and discussing family issues. It was in that swing, at age 6 I learned that I was adopted , "chosen" as they called it. It was where I heard that my favorite uncle was going into the Navy and from that swing, we heard the neighbors fights, other mother's admonitions to wayward children and the sounds of piano practice.

At age eight, we moved, and summers were spent mostly in the woods around our new home, near a recreation site for the families of Union Carbide employees. We were the last house on the street, surrounded by woods and animals and wildflowers. I loved nothing better than going into those woods day after day, seeking new critters, bugs, flowers, seed pods, creeks and rocks to look under. My mom was so paranoid about most things, that I still cannot fathom why she was so agreeable to seeing me (at ages 8-11) go off into the woods every day. I was warned to run home if I smelled watermelon; it is supposed to be the predominate smell when there is a copperhead snake nearby. I saw many a copperhead while growing up, but none on my jaunts into the woods. The smells of deep woods; leaf mold, clear water creeks and wildflowers haunts me even now. I can still conjure it at will. I found many crayfish, fishing worms, crickets, tadpoles, frogs and the like - and they all made it home with me at one time or another.

I also picked up a few ticks along the way, but they were removed with no ill effects when I got home. One year a group of teenagers decided to dam up the small creek nearby, to create a swimming hole. I helped them locate and carry rocks for the dam, and they barely tolerated my presence, except for the help I was so willing to give. Eventually they created a swimming hole of about 4 feet deep, enough to float in, if not really swim. It was cool, clear running water and good for the soul. I spent many an hour there, surrounded by tall trees and dappled shade. I was once in a seminar, in which the leader asked us to get still and "go back to your favorite quiet place". I knew immediately where I would go and with the snap of a finger - I was back in those woods, with only the trees and breeze for company.

In my area, we had a huge swimming pool complex that had been built into the side of an old rock quarry. Virtually everyone went there on weekends, as it was one of the few public pools around in those days. They had the big main pool, baby pools, a games area and a dance floor, and they always played the current popular songs for our "dancing pleasure". And dance we did; as the sun burned brightly and tanning or swimming became boring, we piled onto the dance floor like sardines in a can. It was heaven. If your current boyfriend was not in attendance that weekend, there were always scores of others waiting in the wings. And don't get me started about life guards; they of the bronzed bodies and rippling biceps. It was every 15 year old's dream, even if the guards were far too old for us.

During the week, my girlfriend and I would walk about a mile every day to the local dairy store to have a Coke and an order of fries. We told our mothers that the reason for this daily foray was our friendship, but we were not completely truthful. The route we walked was guaranteed to take us by the homes of some boys whose attention we coveted, and some days we were rewarded with a wave and a hello or maybe conversation, if we were very lucky. I don't know if they ever realized our motives, but we were so obvious I don't know how they couldn't have.

Summers in later years were not as idyllic, since I had to work and save money for college. Those were good experiences too, of course, but the best summers were spent in nature, sitting on a rock or turning it over to see what was underneath.

Up the Creek Without a You-Know-What

By Cappy Hall Rearick
To be published in her upcoming book:
"Simply Southern Ease"
Publication Date: Late 2005
http://www.simplysoutherncappy.com/

“I just don’t know what I’m gonna do without Bo Bo. Why, in my entire adult life, I’ve nevah even had to lick a stamp.”

Darla Jean’s husband of twenty something years took off with a nineteen-year-old hairdresser in the middle of the night. He left a note.

“Darla Jean,

I’m through being your lackey, your bill payer, your flunky. From now on you’ll have to figure out how to do your own nails, answer the telephone and make your own dang hair appointments. You have done wore me out.

Don’t bother to come looking for me ‘cause I will be long gone by the time you read this. I am going to the island of Crete, where I plan to open up a cafe specializing in Southern food. Like, you know, Shrimp Grits. I have gone off with Merleen. Yes, Merleen Stucky from the Buck-a-Cut who has been cuttng my hair and taking care of all my needs going on six months now. I know she only graduated from high school last year and that some people might say she’s a little bit young for me, but doing hair is not the only thing Merleen learned how to do at beauty school. Unlike you, she can also cook.

I did a load of laundry before I left, put two quarts of my home-made spaghetti sauce in the freezer and bought two weeks worth of groceries that cost me way over a hundred dollars. You will just have to figure out what to do next when the food’s all gone and you can’t find any clean underwear.

Hasta la Vista.

Bo Bo”

Darla Jean is sitting across the table from me sniffing. Her eyes are rimmed in red instead of the overdone black eyeliner without which she wouldn’t be seen going to the mailbox. Her hair is flat, a far cry from its normally teased and lacquered state. Darla Jean began teasing her hair in 1960 and has finally mastered the technique. The fact that you could land a 747 on the top of her head has never seemed to give her a minute’s pause.

“Big hair defines who I am,” she loves to tell people.

You think?

I place Bo Bo’s farewell letter on the table and look up at the Doodah Sistah I have known for many years, but am barely able to recognize today. We go way back to the Sixties when Darla Jean was what could be described as a professional beauty contestant. Her long term goal was to win more Georgia competitions than anybody in the history of beauty pageants. Her mother, Darla Dean, stood behind her, supportive to the end. Let me rephrase that. Darla Dean pushed, shoved and cow-prodded Darla Jean all the way. Rumor has it that she took out a second mortgage on her house to pay for a designer gown for Darla Jean to wear at her first evening dress competition.

She won a few and lost a few, capturing the titles of “Miss Butter Bean” and “Miss Savannah River Catfish.” Darla Jean was even third runner-up in the “Miss Southern Railway System,” no small feat for a hick town gal from South Georgia. She was a shoo-in to win the title of “Miss Water Nymph” over in Darien until an accident pulled the plug on the odds-on favorite.

That fateful day, Darla Jean began her talent exhibition with a swan dive off the high board while wearing black patent leather spike heel shoes. I’m pretty sure nobody but me noticed the little splash she made as her feet hit the H2O. She popped up out of that water with a smile big as you please, flashing her whiter than white teeth, the very same color of a new porcelain toilet. She was on fire. Every strand of her lacquered hair remained exactly as it had been before she stepped off the diving board. Now that I think about it, a blow torch could not have penetrated that mop of hair.

Her routine called for a water ballet, which she performed looking, if not like Esther Williams, at least like one of Esther’s fans. We all clapped and whistled as loud as we could while she shimmied up the ladder and out of the water for the final segment of her talent exhibition.
Shoulders back, tummy tucked, immovable hair intact and showing off her bleached molars with a smile leveled at the judges, she prissed herself over to the microphone clicking those spike heeled shoes. Darla Jean was supposed to serenade the audience with her chosen song, Handel’s “Water Music,” to which she had written lyrics.

A trumpet, a squeaky clarinet and a loud snare drum comprised the so-called band. In actuality, they were three discontented teenagers doing public service for setting fire to the school principal’s prize winning camellia bush. They had almost finished the song’s introduction when Darla Jean stepped up to the microphone with a veteran beauty contestant smile bonde to her face. Not realizing that she was also standing in a good sized puddle of chlorinated pool water, she grabbed hold of the mike as if it were the Miss America crown, (Darla Jean’s personal Holy Grail.)

To my knowledge, Darla Jean never danced so fast before or anytime since. I can’t even guess how much time passed before the audience realized that she was boogieing with enough electricity running through her body to power a small substation.

The kid playing the snare drum saw what was happening first and jumped up to unplug the mike. That was only after her mother, Darla Dean, began to holler, “She ain’t allowed to dance. We’re Pentecostal!”

Darla Jean collapsed right in the chlorinated puddle she had made. Her hair, until that first spark of electricity got hold of it, still had not moved. When the voltage hit however, it went straight to her head causing every strand to stand up and say howdy. Darla Jean was the spitting image of a deep fried Medusa.

She was rushed to the hospital where the doctors shook their heads in wonder. They couldn’t believe she wasn’t dead or brain damaged although in my opinion, it would have been hard to tell with Darla Jean. To this day, I am convinced that she owes her life to hair lacquer. It provided a protective shield and saved her life.

Bringing myself back to the here and now, I clear my throat. “Ahem. Darla Jean, I think you should just forget about Bo Bo. You’re a whole lot stronger than you think. Now put your big girl bloomers on and get a grip.”

She blows her nose and stares across the table at me. “So what is your point?”

“You don’t need Bo Bo. There’s a lot you can do on your own.”

A turbo sigh shoots out of her mouth as though it were a field Howitzer. Cocking her head to the side, she looks at me. “Oh yeah? Name one thing.”

I know she can’t cook, and operating a washer/dryer, a no brainer for most people, makes Darla Jean break out in hives. Some people might say she’s electronically challenged. I say she’s just spoiled rotten. Bo Bo did everything but chew up her food for her. She doesn’t even have the skills to be a people greeter in the store where America shops. But she is good at one thing: Princessing.

Give a man a fish and he eats for a day. Teach him how to fish and he eats for a lifetime, I think to myself.

“Darla Jean, lean over the table and look me straight in the eye.” I pick up a small scrap of paper and hold it between my thumb and forefinger.

“Now watch my lips,” I say, before sticking out my tongue. “You’re fixing to get your first survival tool. I’m going to teach you how to lick a stamp.”

Southern Love Story

Terry Lee lives up in the northern tip of the county where his legacy is. I remember goin' to his grandma's visitation, and the shock on his face when he saw me turn up at the funeral home. That was a mighty fine hug, if I say so myself. Grandma was a member of Trimble Methodist, which we all know takes care of their own. Terry picked out the casket with a nice patchwork quilt inside for her trip to the other side in Gloryland. It was pretty, if I say so myself, but then I'm partial to quilts.

He moved into her house a while later...in a nice residential section of Trimble right behind his Mama and Daddy. Nothing but a hedge in between the generations. Susan and Jesse lived right next door to him with a pool and their own mixed up business. Their kids Matt and Jessica suffered through the divorce of their parents and came out on the other side with their lives intact, if a bit roughed up. All the while, Miss Mattye was gettin' cancer and didn't even know it.

Mattye had raised Sheila and Susan on her own for a long time, and then she met Billy, the big time farmer and high roller. They raised those girls and Terry in the little house that is Terry Lee's home to this day. His picture still hangs in Mattye's house in the living room...all blonde and cute and stuff. In a suit! I ain't never seen the boy in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt,personally. 'Cept for funeral days.

Mattye died several years ago, mercifully a quick death. She had cancer everywhere and threw a clot one rainy Saturday afternoon in June. By Sunday it was all over but the cryin' and the arrangements at the same funeral home where Grandma got eulogized over...this time by the Baptist preacher. Praise the Lord!

I still remember the look in Terry's eyes when he saw me saunter up at the graveyard out there at Cool Springs. The dirt had been turned just so to make room for Mattye's coffin near to her sister Sue in the Presbyterian cemetary. Big old trees shade the place next to the church house. A couple of years later, I drove up the gravel path and parked. My feelings had got the best of me, and I needed her advice on which way to go with her boy. It was probably wishful thinkin', but I thought I heard her say "go for it, girl". She does so love that boy of hers. And she always loved me too.

Last time I saw him was when I got invited to Susan's wedding and he had to take me. Sheila did it up real nice at her house and we all enjoyed the nuptials. There's a picture of me and him somewhere that I never saw. One of those family things that I'm sure will come back around someday when I least expect it.

Road Trip To Georgia

Many years ago, surely a dozen by now, my husband got the urge to visit his kin in Georgia. It had been many, many years since he had visited and I believe he had a bit of a guilt attack going on. This year he was working a set schedule of working 14 days on and 14 days off in the Gulf of Mexico. Our son was about 3 or 4 years of age and we were ready to show him off to an extended side of the paternal family!

At the time, my husband was a van kind of guy. He had purchased a customized van with the hopes of us using it for family trips while our son was small and our routine for travelling was flexible. Father in law had died several months before and mother in law was hinting heavily about visiting us for the Thanksgiving holiday. Thus, the idea for the road trip to Georgia was born.

We invited mother in law down, purchased the airline ticket for her and she arrived a few days before Thanksgiving Day. We loaded up the van the next day with the four of us and headed off to Georgia. We were living in southern Louisiana and we had not taken this journey to southern Georgia before. The weather was perfect and we were ready for a change of scenery.

My husband and I share a love of sightseeing when we are on a road trip. We will see a road sign that catches our attention and detour off the highway to check things out. We never know what we will see and that's all a part of the fun.

We drove across Lousiana to the coast of Mississippi. My homeland. I had not been there in many years and was truly amazed with how everything had built up there. What was once a long stretch of lonely road with a few houses dotting the landscape was now a busy highway with exits leading to casinos! Progress? I don't know. But it was different. The best part of this leg of our trip was my son's first walk, or in his case, run on the beach! By the time we pulled into a good spot to stretch our legs and enjoy some sunshine on the beach, it was low tide. My husband and son had such fun going way, way out and running back in. My son collected lots of sea shells and saw lots of little critters like crabs and starfish. I like to think this is why he has a love of marine biology today!

Next up the highway was the state of Alabama. Along the way we saw the sign right before Mobile for the USS Alabama Battleship Memorial Park. 'Nuff said. Fortunately mother in law is an adventurous soul, too. This park turned out to be lots bigger and better than we expected to see. We toured the USS Alabama, a grand old veteran battleship of World War II. This battleship is massive and we divided up. My mother in law and I went at our own pace, asking questions of the volunteer hosts and my husband and son went off on their merry way. Next to the USS Alabama is a submarine, the USS Drum. I passed on this opportunity to go into a submarine as I am a bit too claustrophobic for that! My husband and son had fun, though. There are lots of military vehicles and aircraft around the grounds. So many things to see all the while trying to remember we should get back on the road.

We stopped at a restaurant for some good old Southern barbeque. Every southerner knows this is pork barbeque! Texas barbeque is beef, southern barbeque is pork. I love it all. This little roadside cafe filled the bill. We ate like truck drivers and experienced our first taste of fried pickles. Fried pickles! Sliced dill pickles deep fried in a light batter. Now that is one delicious treat. We bought several jars of goodies put up by the owner's wife. Yummy stuff.

We arrived in Georgia, ready for a rest. We stayed at the home of Aunt Dottie. She wasn't technically my husband's aunt, but in the South, cherished adults are honored with the title of aunt or uncle. She was really a second cousin of mother in law's by marriage. Aunt Dottie was quite a character. She had only recently moved back to her hometown and was adjusting to widowhood and retirement. For many years she had been station manager for the public television station in Jackson, Mississippi. She and Uncle John did not have any children so her career was her life. She was a gracious hostess and loved having people in her house.

As with any family vacation, there is the one major mishap that seals the trip's memory in our brains. This trip has the memory of my son falling out of the van in Aunt Dottie's driveway and conking his head hard enough for all of us to fight hysteria. I was out of the van on the way into the house and my husband was helping our son down the two steps out of the van. Or so I thought. He turned his head just long enough for our son to take matters into his own hands and the next thing we hear is a shrill cry out from the boy. He had quite a goose egg on his forehead but thankfully no concussion. This kind of excitement I can live without.

Being the outsider at big family gatherings is not my favorite way to go, but it worked out well. Lots of uncles, aunts and cousins to meet and try to remember their names! My mother in law loved being home and showing us around the town. This is a town that is very small and rural. The town is known for its crops of sweet onions and pecans. We brought lots of those home, too.

This trip turned out to be especially good for my mother in law. Ever since that year she has made it a point to go down there every year to share one of the holidays with her family in her hometown.

Nice how that worked out.

~It Must Have Been the Spit~

Written by:
Harriette Jacobs
South of the Gnat Line
http://www.homeschoolblogger.com/Harriette

For as long as I can remember I have loved to garden. This is not to say that I have braggin’ rites to a green thumb, though some gardening years have been pretty bountiful, I would lean more towards my thumbs having shades of green moments.

While we have had our fair share of success with tomatoes, lettuces, peppers, squash and a few others, I will admit, I have never had success growing any cantaloupes, pumpkins or watermelons; not ‘til just recently.

I was really excited when we tilled our newly relocated garden spot earlier this spring after having cleared the final few pine seedlings from the area I had been eyeing. We all took turns with the tiller, added some compost matter here and there and tilled some more. I had an “official map” of the proposed garden and went at it. Our greatest successes were found in our potato patch but with our bizarre May weather this year, our tomatoes did not perform as well as gardening seasons past have proven. Our corn did well, especially with this being our maiden year for it and don’t even ask me about the carrots; I give up on carrots. Period. The End. I did, however, manage to see a couple of “sprouts” begin for my watermelon and cantaloupe attempts. But to no avail, there would be little evidence of fruit forthcoming.

The summer months were upon us in no time and the Fourth of July arrived with no evidence of home grown melons, leaving us with no other option but to buy a “store bought” watermelon. Oh the agony of failure. It just didn’t seem right to be eating store-bought but we just had to eat melon on the 4th of July……..that being a Southern law and all. The boys loved eating it out on the front porch which naturally led to their competing with seed spittin’. Clearly, this would later prove a worthy warm up for when we would later attend the local Watermelon Festival when the boys won the seed spittin’ contest and relay races………….

A couple of more weeks passed and I discovered that, low and behold, we had watermelon vines sprouting all along the front of our front porch. I, of course, thought this was hilarious and declared we would leave them to grow as they pleased.

Time passed, the vines grew, the vines bloomed, the bees buzzed, the butterflies fluttered and then there was fruit! We had 4 watermelons growing about the size of softballs. I was convinced they would never grow, since it was already August and fall was just around the corner, but I decided to leave them alone just a bit longer.

August proved to be our driest month of the summer and we were losing shrubs including our new magnolia tree we had planted in June; I doubted the watermelon would make it another week at best.

Well they grew a little more. And then a little more.

Our homeschooling year began, fall baseball began, our pond project began, LIFE was going on and I hadn’t thought much about the melon patch thriving along the front veranda ~ ‘til last Thursday. I announced it was time to clean out all the vines and “that mess” and just toss those melons that have stopped growing into the compost; after all, the largest of the fruit that was growing was smaller than a basketball even though it was genuine watermelon shaped. I would have bet the farm they were all just green on the inside.

My oldest son was all involved in pulling up the vines and loading the wheel barrow when he decided to cut open the largest melon. Miracle Grow couldn’t boast claims to a better watermelon! He bolted into the house shoutin’ out his discovery. I could not believe it. How many years have I tried to grow watermelon and NEVER had one vine to bear fruit……………never.

We have eaten the absolute best tasting watermelon all weekend. Who knew?

Clearly....it must have been the spit.

My Confederate Grandfather

Weddles


The following is a true story of my great great grandparents, William Henry Weddle and Mary Elizabeth Chapman Weddle. Thankfully, somewhere along the line, a relative saw fit to record bits of our family lore.

William Henry was born in 1836 and died in 1922. Mary Elizabeth was born 1843 and died in 1929. They were married in 1861, in Barton County, Missouri. These are the statistics. But what happened in between all these dates comprises a family history.

Missouri during the Civil War was a fearful place. Full of hate and violence. It was a "border state" with strong sentiments on both sides of the slavery issue. Bad men came, the likes of renegade raider William C.Quantrell, leader of the despicable Missouri guerrillas. Using the war as a cover, they raided the coutryside, raping and murdering. During this frightening time, my grandfather Weddle joined the Confederacy. Company B, Burns Missouri Regiment of Infantry, Parsons Brigade is listed on his Application of Indigent Soldier of the late Confederacy for pension under the act of May 12, 1899.

The Weddle household consisted of Henry, Mary Elizabeth, Billy (Henry's son from a previous and now deceased wife), George Beasley (son of Mary Elizabeth before her marriage to Henry), and their own son, Jimmy. Mary's parents lived nearby and owned two slaves - a husband and wife. Henry left for war and the two families combined for safety from the "bushwackers". The family made several precautions to protect themselves from these marauders. Hiding her horse, and hoarding hidden food became part of the daily routine. Because it grew too dangerous for her father to remain in the house ( bushwackers would murder any men in the house when they came raiding, and both Union and Confederate armies would "enlist" any male that could walk and carry a gun), Mary moved her father to a big cave that was in the side of a mountain about a mile from the house. But it was to no avail, the poor man was found by a band of raiders and shot down in front of the little family. The men took anything and everything of value in the house then set it afire. Mary begged one of the men to spare her little boys some cornmeal, which for some odd reason was granted. After the bandits left, Mary went in search of a neighbor to help bury her father. Now it was on Mary's shoulders to make hard decisions. Upon an invitation from another neighbor, Mary began to make plans to join a wagon train headed to Texas. There were twenty-three wagons of women and children. Before the journey, Mary dug up the dirt from the smokehouse floor, poured water over it, then boiled it down to make salt. On the trail, Mary provided for her little family as best she could. Once she found a wild pig with a litter of piglets, and managed to steal one away from the old sow. Another time, she found leftover corn in a deserted corn crib. A pumpkin patch provided stewed pumpkin for a time. Nothing was easy, and the women had to keep the wagons rolling. It was necessary to grease the axels to keep them from catching fire, and pine knots were gathered and burned down to a usable tar-like substance. Occasionally, a farm that was passed on the trail would provide a meager meal with whatever they could spare. After a time, there were only three wagons left in the little train headed for the Red River. Some had stopped along the way with a wagon that just wouldn't go any further, some took a different route. Mary's wagon crossed the Red River without much difficulty - they were in Texas!

Then, the unbelievable happened. One evening the little family was huddled underneath a tree, waiting out a rainshower. Two Confederate soldiers rode up and joined them under the branches. They talked a bit with Mary and heard of her journey. Billy, Henry's first son, was hairlipped at birth, but he could speak tolerably well. One of the men noticed the little boy and asked about his name. As it turned out, Henry was just a few miles away, hauling food for the Confederate army at a supply depot. Henry, like most of the men who were sorely missing wives and children, sat around the fire at night and chased away the homesickness with stories of life before the war. He told of Billy, and his dog-it-all spirit to not let the ugly handicap slow him down. The two soldiers said they would tell Henry where to find Mary and the boys. Mary met Henry the next day, riding a mule along the trail. He had been wounded a few months back and had been assigned to drive a supply wagon to and from the front. Henry knew of a small deserted little house along his supply route and moved his family there. Since Henry was able to stay at the depot for the remainder of the war, he could bring them food, and have a semblance of family life.

This story, in a much longer version, has been handed down in our Weddle family since Mary first regaled grandchildren with her real-life history lessons. I have been lucky because some family member saw fit to be sure these and other stories were written down for the generations to come.

Because of Granddad Weddle, I am told that I could join the United Daughters of the Confederacy. I might just do that one day, to honor Henry and all of my other grandfathers, uncles, and cousins who played their part in the "War of Northern Aggression". And I hope that a little bit of Mary Elizabeth lives on in me, my daughters and granddaughters to come. I will be sure they know about this brave young lady who was so slight of build, but towering with determination and spirit.

Calling All Ablutophiles and Olfactomaniacs (Try the Kudzu!)

If you are wondering what in the world I am talking about, you should visit Natural Impulse, a web site specializing in homemade bath soaps and sundries.

According to Karen White, the owner and soap-maker, she and her husband invented those words, but they do come from a legitimate beginning. "Abluto" means a "washing" or "cleansing" in Latin, while "-phile" means "loving, fondness for, attraction to, affinity for" in Greek. As for Olfactomaniac, "olfacto" means "to smell" or "sense of smell" in Latin and "mania", of course, means "madness" or "enthusiasm" in Greek. Karen took those words and combined them to make something new, just like she combines oils and fragrances to make her soaps and bath salts. I had the pleasure of emailing her recently; in order to get an interview. I just had to find out how she makes those wonderful soaps of hers.

Karen says she made her first batch of homemade soaps in 1996, after quitting her job at the telephone company, and quickly became addicted. In 1997, she started selling her soaps, under the name Natural Impulse. Her soaps can be bought through her web site, craft shows and some small retail shops.

Are Homemade Soaps All Natural?

According to Karen, Natural Impulse’s soaps are made with vegetable oils such as olive oil, palm oil, avocado oils, as well as other vegetable oils. She tries to steer away from animal products, however she does admit that there is a tad bit of honey in the Oatmeal/Honey Scrub. Ummm, sounds good.

She also uses essential oils and some fragrance oils in her soaps and salts. Karen isn’t one to hide her ingredients; you can go to her web site and read about how she makes her soaps and how each ingredient affects the product. She says, "I like using natural products whenever I can, but sometimes it’s not possible. For example, there is no way to make a natural "Green Pear" soap, since there is no Green Pear essential oil." In those instances, she uses synthetic fragrance oils.

After doing my bit of research, (asking Karen) I found out that most soap found in the grocery store is made from "detergent" rather than soap. If you don’t know the difference and are confused, it breaks down to this: natural soaps contain "glycerin", which is a natural by-product of the soap-making process. Detergent bars contain chemicals that can dry out the skin.

How Long Does It Take To Make a Batch?

I asked Karen how long it takes her to make her soap and she confessed that it can take up to 3-4 hours for four batches, not including the prep work, such as the coffee for the "Amazing Kitchen Soap" and infusing the oils with herbs for her herbal soaps. It sort of goes like this:

You mix oils/fats with lye and water and get soap plus glycerin. Karen uses the "cold process" method in which the "melted oils are combined with cool lye water and stirred frequently and for a long time. You stir until you reach a "trace" – when the mixture begins to thicken.

The liquid soap is then poured into a mold and insulated for 24 hours.

Then the bars are unmolded and left to sit another day until they harden some and can be cut into smaller bars. Karen lets her soap cure for "at least three weeks" before they are ready for packaging and shipping. She says she uses a dehumidifier to help evaporate any excess water in the soap.

Sounds like a full time job all right. Very fascinating too.

I asked Karen how long her soap lasts and she said it depends on how it is used. Store-bought soaps are made to last longer and are harder. Homemade soaps tend to dissolve faster if left in water or where water can fall on it, such as in the shower. She says to drain your homemade soap and allow it to dry and then it will last a long time, sometimes longer than store-bought. To help you keep your soap dry; she has wooden soap drains for sale on her web site and they are adorable.

Soap Scents

Natural Impulse features many categories of soaps, such as Florals, Herbals, Southern Exposure, Kids, Scentual, and Retro. I, myself, ordered a couple of soaps to try out – Peach and Kudzu.

Yes, Kudzu.

Not aware that kudzu has a scent? Well, it does – a nice grapey kind of scent. I tried it in the shower (yes, I used my wooden soap drain) and was very pleased with the results. Not as much lather as I am used to, but that’s OK. Karen says that lather has nothing to do with cleansing. In order for homemade soaps to lather, you have to use a lot of coconut oil, which can be drying if used in large amounts. So "the trick is to use a percentage such that the majority of people will be pleased with both the lather and the feel of their skin afterwards."

My skin felt wonderfully soft and silky after using my kudzu bar. I can’t wait to try the peach.

And the magnolia…

And the gardenia…

And the peppermint…

And the lemon chiffon…

And the honeysuckle…

So go on over to Natural Impulse and order some homemade soaps and bath salts. Tell Karen that Southern Gal sent ‘ya!

Dana Sieben
www.southerngalgoesnorth.blogspot.com

I Have My Momma's Feet

My feet ain't dainty, my husband advised one day.
They are tough and cracked, he went on in a sarcastic way.

"Aren't southern women supposed to be soft?" asked my sweetie,
Running his hands over my scratchy feetie.

I wasn't quite sure.

I love to go barefoot and I have big feet.
I love to feel my feet and the grass meet.

Shoes are fine, and I pay my dues,
but nothing beats going sans shoes.

I have cracks in my heels that look like an Alabama ditch
after years of weathering and erosion.
I am constantly slapping foot creams on my feet, which
seem to do little for my foot corrosion.

I have to admit though; they don't bother me a lot
unless they scratch against the sheets and catch,
Or my husband screams when they gash his leg,
It makes him scream and beg.

My feet are a work of art in progress,
They have grown older and changed, it's true,
But they seemed familiar to me, last I looked.
And then, dagblamit, I knew.

I have my mamma's feet.

She has the same timeworn calluses
that I have walked into today
and the same cracks and toughness
that shows her love of walking around in this way.

So we slather the cream and file those nails
and wash them both at night.
We won't worry too much about our feet
because going barefoot just feels so right.

Southern Talkin'

From the first time I heard myself speaking via a taped conversation on a cheap recorder, I didn't care for the voice I had or the southern accent. There wasn't anything I could do about my voice but there was something I could do about my accent.

I set out at the very beginning of my working career to lose the "Hillbilly" twang in my speech pattern and to do anything I could to improve my vocabulary. I knew that if I was going to be successful in business I needed to sound intelligent and knowledgeable when I spoke. Public speaking was one tall mountain for me to climb but climb it I did. Over time I got to the point of being able to "fit-in" no matter my surroundings. I could adapt verbally to any group I might find myself involved with but I must admit...I was most comfortable when I could be ME and as they say down home...just let er rip.

I’ve lived in the southern portion of the U.S. all my life, so those quaint speech elements I grew up with were my family’s language and the one I spoke when I was relaxed and at ease. At times I have wondered about the origin of some of them and how they came to be used so widely. I seldom use any of them unless I’m part of a group that does. In those surroundings I quickly adapt and in a matter of minutes I find myself speaking the local dialect and feeling very much at home.

Over the years I’d say I’ve been exposed to most of the quirky terms used by my family and relatives. Some I just accept, others I DO wonder about and no matter how hard I try, using them has never gotten to feel natural for me.

When an aunt I was visiting down in Booneville, Kentucky asked me if I would “carry” her to the store so she could pick up some things she needed to prepare the evening meal, I said “NO! I won’t carry you there but if you will get in my car I’ll drive or TAKE you to the store and bring you back home.” She only looked at me with this confused expression and then it hit her…I was making a joke. Ha-Ha. One that didn’t strike her as particularly funny. I knew instantly that I was treading on what amounted to “sacred ground” with her. DO NOT make fun of the way she talks was the message I received.

The words PACK, HAUL, TOTE or CARRY can mean the same thing or they may not, depending on whom one is speaking with. Then one person really confused me and used the term “BRING” to express the same thought. I don’t know if I’ll ever keep it all straight. One had to be careful when visiting down home because you could end up with your jaws slapped or your mouth mashed if you made a habit of poking fun at the way someone talked.

Still, I recall the first time I read one of those “Hillbilly to English” translation dictionaries and I all but busted a gut laughing. Yes! It’s funny in it’s own way, but deep down inside, it’s a part of my heritage, my family roots and to make fun of it is in a sense, making fun of myself. I don’t like being made “sport” of because of my speech and I give others what I expect for myself. I respect another’s language and its origins, doing my best not to be openly critical or allow my body language to convey it either.

I always try to use proper English terms when the circumstances require it but it’s a strain at times. I find my family's accent and speech patterns colorful, expressive and natural.

I tell ye what Bubba…I love being a southerner.







Written by: Mr. Bee
http://canyouhearmenow.typepad.com

Carmen

Looking out the window of my Mom's station wagon as we headed North west, Labor day fading from view, I murmured her name, just loud enough to vibrate on my lips, a tangible thing, as if her kiss was still with me.

I was sure that she was the sweetest flower ever to grace Cleveland county, an angel with the softest skin and the sweetest smelling hair, sent to me from the foothills. Her smile was a warm place on a cold day, her laughter like silver strands of tinsel floating delicately to the ground.

I think of her now with the nostalgic indifference that 25 years and true love will warrant, trying to recall her face. But for that summer, for those three weeks, my 15 years of sagely wisdom spoke to me of breathless oaths sworn in desperate fumbling embraces that would span the very ocean that crashed at our feet.

Hand-in-hand, we shared declaration and devotion, awkward teenage kisses with a narcotic value that made our hearts race and our pulses quicken, witnessed only by the cold rising stars of late August, and the scuttling white crabs ghosting past break and dune, running away from the rising Myrtle Beach tide.

Magnolia: Southern Style Beauty

Inside view of magnolia blossom.

Majestic flower! How purely beautiful
Thou art, as rising from thy bower of green,
Those dark and glossy leaves so thick and full,
Thou standest like a high-born forest queen
Among thy maidens clustering round so fair,--
I love to watch thy sculptured form unfolding,
And look into thy depths, to image there
A fairy cavern, and while thus beholding,
And while thy breeze floats o'er thee, matchless flower,
I breathe the perfume, delicate and strong,
That comes like incense from thy petal-bower;
My fancy roams those southern woods along,
Beneath that glorious tree, where deep among
The unsunned leaves thy large while flowercups hung!

~ Christopher Pearce Cranch, "Poem to the Magnolia Grandiflora"

On the grounds of Waverly Plantation near Columbus, Mississippi there stands a huge magnolia tree that is at least five feet in diameter. It is original to the property and has survived tornados, wind storms, hail and all manner of natural insults. It survived almost 50 years of complete neglect during the time the plantation house was vacant and inhabited by possum and raccoon. They say this tree is probably over 200 years old. Every Spring during the first week in May, the fragrant white blooms begin to open. This happens like clockwork, folks don't have to consult a calendar to know it's May 'round these parts, just take a gander at the giant magnolia, yep, it's May alright. Never mind that March and April have been cooler or warmer than usual, the tree just KNOWS it's time to bloom...it's May.

Magnolia blossom (pics by srp)

Smoke on the Water

Southern folks will tell you straight up that the thing they miss the most when they move to the nether regions is good old slow cooked BBQ. Pork is best..tenderloin, whole hog or Boston butt. The closest I've ever been to heaven was eatin' ribs at Charlie Vergos place tucked away in an alley in Memphis. I think they call it The Rendezvous. The ribs are just the right mix of wet sauce and dry rub that calls for an empty belly and a good clean up afterwards. Memphis is also the home of a BBQ cookin' contest on the Mighty Mississipi where good old boys and girls vie for the grand champion title. It's serious business, ya'll. Finalists from preliminaries all over the dang world show up and strut their snouts. That one is held in May, often times in the mud.

This one is coming up on October 22nd in Lynchburg Tennessee. I went there once on my way to the Ocoee River for whitewater rafting. We took a tour of the distillery where the sour mash is stirred, watched over and patiently waited on. You can't get a nip of it there though....it's a dry county. Southern states are funny like that sometimes in their cross between commerce and religion. Prior to the tour,we had lunch at Miss Bobo's boarding house. It was a delicious meal served home style all OVER the giant table that dominates the dining room. We sat on the porch in rocking chairs and rested before we moved on to enjoy the Cherokee National Forest and the surrounding rivers. Hiwassee, Nantahala...Ocoee. The Smokies are just a few miles north too!

Pass the sauce, please and thank you. And kiss my grits.

What Happened to the Lightning Bugs?

As a child growing up in Alabama, one of my favourite things to do in the Summertime was catch lightning bugs. I think they are mostly known as fireflies, but we always called them lightning bugs.

It stayed daylight up until after 8pm in the Summertime,and we would stay outside until it got nearly dark. We would have our mason jars in hand, waiting for the first little flickers of light to appear. There would be
just a couple at first, then all of a sudden there would be hundreds of them.

I always wondered where they came from. Were they hiding in the grass? How come you never saw them except at night? We caught them in our jars by the dozens. We just loved to sit there and watch them light up one by one.

We would eventually let them go, but it was always funs racing around the yard trying to catch them, and see who could catch the most.

As I got older, the lightning bugs seemed to fade as years went by. It got to the point, I didn't see them much, if at all. Where did they go? Was it because the little girl had grown up, and that lightning bugs weren't as fascinating to her now?

It wasn't until right before I moved to Canada that I saw a few one evening, but it still wasn't like it was in the mid 70's when I was a young girl.

We don't have lightning bugs in BC, as far as I can tell. I haven't ever seen one.

I would love for my future children to have memories such as this, and I hope that one day the lightening bugs will come again.

j.butterfly
www.gadgeteer.net/southgirl

Big Hair in Cowtown

For all it's other renowned and contrary traits, Texas is home of the "Big Hair" gals; beauty pageant queens deluxe.

Yup, I guess we are known 'round the world for having gloriously bigger-than-life tresses. I think this trend probably got started in the 60's when Lady Bird was First Mama, and "back-combing" (read "ratting") was just the thing to give you nice poufy, helmet hair. Then, there was the cutesy flip. I could never figure out why girls would make this big mound of matted-then-slightly-smoothed hair and clip in a tiny velvet bow on the side or just above the bangs like a poodle just out of the grooming parlor. I guess it gave perspective to this architecturally designed coif. Surfer chicks like Annette Funicello or Deborah Walley wore these do's, even though they didn't hail from Texas.



But something happened in the late 1960's to Texas gals' big hair. Suddenly, the groovy thing was to have fresh, natural hair, including legs and armpits. Pouf was out, long stringy locks were in. Clairol Herbal Essence made us all believe we needed to smell like a woodsy forest and patchouli instead of hairspray and Dippity-Doo. We had to get down to earth. For some reason, I always think of Joan Baez or Cher as the prototype for this era of hairstyle. I had baby-fine blonde hair as a teenager (still is blonde with a little help from the beauty parlor to chase the VERY few wisps of gray away), and it was just plain homely laying there all flat against my head. My Mama had a vendetta against "hippie" hair and mine would have won the blue ribbon at the county fair for straightness. When I was little, she would insist on at least twice a year perms, but instead of the lovely curly locks pictured on the box, I got frizzed, fried, duck fuzz. And why is it, you gotta wait a whole week to wash your hair after perming it? Walk around smelling like a toxic chemical plant in Oklahoma. Always had this vaguely skunk-like stink to it when you sweated for at least three months after this tortuous beauty treatment. I digress.


Permed Pattie

Then, a Corpus Christi girl put Texas hair back on top. One name says it all, Farrah. Suddenly, blonde "wings" were all the rage, and Aquanet shareholders were estatic and singing "We're in the money".




Thanks to television, Texas hair was on its way to salvation. After Charlie's Angels, "Dallas" hit the bigtime, with bigger than life characters, and of course, with bigger hair than ever.

Occasionally in my office building, I see a woman I call "Barbie's Grandmother" prancing across the skywalk bridge. This lady has got to be in her late 60's, but even so, her big platinum teased hair can still grab men's eyes. I catch 'em watching her pass by. In the elevators, they take quick little sneaks at The Hair, and I would love to be privy to their testosterone thoughts. Doesn't hurt that she has a figure any 20 year-old would die for (hell, any of us would die for). Her hair probably accounts for 40% of her total body weight, and her fingernails for at least 20% more. I swear she must be the last living paying customer of Loni Anderson's hair stylist. I think I will nominate her as the Patron Saint of Texas Big Hair. At the very least, she deserves to be on the new Texas quarters instead of the boring state outline with a star. Now, that would be a coin to brag about.

Big-haired Texas gals, I am proud to be in this Sisterhood.

Good Old Rocky Top

Southerners are known for all sorts of rivalries, but there ain’t a one that can match SEC football. My daddy is a football nut. I can always tell if the Tennessee Vols are losing because he goes out riding around in his truck to work off his frustrations. Such was the case today with the Georgia Bulldogs. If things had looked better, he would’ve been glued to the TV in his favorite recliner that heats and vibrates. When I was a kid I knew when trance time was coming up and acted accordingly. Don’t ever expect an answer from the old man during a game.

I know basically how football works with the quarterback and the extra points and all. My heart’s just never been in it though….probably a flashback to the ghost Daddy of autumns gone by. My blood still runs orange though because I’m a homegirl and we support our team. I know every verse of Rocky Top and observe the third Saturday in October as a national holiday when the Tide rolls in. Smokey is the mascot that cheers us through every single season here in the Volunteer state.

Y’all know how many times Phil has kicked everybody’s butt on the field. The butcher at the grocery store grinned ear to ear the day that old what’s his name got shipped off to Ole Miss. On Saturdays in the fall, I can be sure that the game will be on the radio when I pass through to buy my groceries and beer. He’ll know the score too, and every play that’s been made. He’ll fuss about the offensive or defensive co-ordinator and keep on moving with the meat grinder until the battle of the day reaches the end of the fourth quarter.

Mecca in Tennessee is situated in Knoxville at Neyland stadium. The pilgrims travel for hours to see the mighty Vols take the field with the orange and white checked end zone. When the old one got tore up, my brother actually bought a piece of it framed and everything. Heck, my daddy has a whole ROOM filled with orange and white Vols memorabilia. Some of the stuff sings Rocky Top and some of it just tells the story that is Tennessee football. I don’t go up there without my sunglasses for fear of orange blindness. I bow to the higher power that is SEC football. Basketball season is right around the corner though. Be afraid…..very afraid.

The Last Stand at Croft, N.C.

On down 115,

Sitting on top of soybean field,

rusted Norfolk Southern stories

and

VFW Hall

are pumpkins,

$5.99 each,

Sakrete, Gleen paints and Basic Slag

Tin washtubs, rank-in-file,

staunch, upright,alert,

stand vigil over wrought iron

and plate glass,

Oak Grove Barbecue (only $7.00 a plate),

Imperial Gas, and 8.9 acres for sale

on Bob Beatty Road.

Since 1890.

When Ugly Isn't Ugly

I recently took an online test for American dialects. I figured since I have lived over half my life in the South I would end up with dispersed results. I was not disappointed. Living here has definitely altered my speech patterns, my accent, and the language I use.

Unless you have ever traveled outside your region, you may not realize that people speak differently just about everywhere you go. I discovered this at an early age. On our way to Florida for a family vacation, my father got lost. My father, having wandered for quite awhile without giving in to asking directions, finally decided he was tired of aimlessly driving. We were in South Georgia when my father gave up and pulled over. An amiable man sauntered up to the driver’s side, and Dad asked for the way back to the main road.

As soon as that man opened his mouth, I knew we were in trouble. I looked at my mother who had an unreadable look on her face. Since she was a model of decorum, I followed her example, and settled back in my seat and plastered on a shy smile. Meanwhile, my father, listening as hard as he could, would occasionally make noises like Porky Pig while nodding his head. Turning our vehicle to head out of the station, my Dad yelled a, “Thank you very much” out the window. My mother gave a sideways glance in Dad’s direction and softly asked if he knew where he was going. My father burst out laughing and replied he had not understood a word that the man had spoken. “But he was sure nice and I know he was trying to be helpful.” my father added. I learned you could be a foreigner in your own land.

A couple years after Hubby and I were married, we lived in a small apartment in Hendersonville, North Carolina. A gracious farming family from church let us use a patch of their land to plant some tomatoes and veggies. I usually would drive over to their farm early in the morning, while the air was cool, to weed my little garden. After I finished working, I would go in and have a cup of coffee with my friends. I never had to worry if anyone was awake yet, because Larry always had to get up around four in the morning to milk the cows. We would sit there and chat while the children began to get up and make their way down to the breakfast table. One particular day I was privy to the following conversation.

“Larry, didja see Dorcas on your way down?”

“Yeah - sure did. She’s bein’ real ugly this mornin’.”

“Yeah. She was that way yesterday too!”

A couple of heads shaking accompanied this. I sat there dumbfounded. I could not believe these people would talk about their daughter this way. To top it off, down the stairs came Dorcas and she looked pretty to me! Imagine my surprise when I discovered that “ugly” could refer to a person’s temperament. I have since learned that this is very different from being beaten with an ugly stick – which can, in fact, refer to facial features. Ya know what I mean?

It was with this same family that I committed one of my major Yankee faux paux. I inadvertently used the word “butt”. I knew I had stepped in it by the expressions on everyone’s faces. They all looked embarrassed and ashamed for me. I later learned that the use of that word is considered crude in many Southern circles and I was given other appropriate words to use. Although, I personally think that saying someone is a pain in the bottom seems to lose some of the intended punch.

Then there is the day I was asked, “With or without?” ‘Splain yourself, Ricky! That’s another story…

Written by: Lillium
http://approachingglory.typepad.com/

Washing Clothes Recipe

I won't ever complain about modern technology again.

'Washing Clothes Recipe' - imagine having a recipe for this ! ! !

Years ago an Alabama grandmother gave the new bride
the following recipe:

This is an exact copy as written and found
in an old scrapbook - with spelling errors and all.

WASHING CLOTHES
Build fire in backyard to heat kettle of rain water.
Set tubs so smoke won't blow in eyes if wind is pert. Shave one whole cake of lie soap in boilin' water.

Sort things, make 3 piles

1 pile white,
1 pile colored,
1 pile work britches and rags.

To make starch, stir flour in cool water to smooth, then thin down with boiling water.

Take white things, rub dirty spots on board, scrub hard, and boil, then rub colored don't boil just wrench and starch.

Take things out of kettle with broom stick handle, then wrench, and starch.

Hang old rags on fence.
Spread tea towels on grass.
Pour wrench water in flower bed.
Scrub porch with hot soapy water.
Turn tubs upside down.

Go put on clean dress, smooth hair with hair combs.
Brew cup of tea, sit and rock a spell and count your blessings.
===============================================

Paste this over your washer and dryer.
Next time when you think things are bleak, read it again, kiss that washing machine and dryer, and give thanks.

First thing each morning you should run and hug your washer and
dryer, also your toilet - those two-holers used to get mighty cold!

For you non-southerners - wrench means rinse.
******************

Author Unknown
(Submitted by my Mother-in-law)

The St. Charles Line

She sits in a quiet reverence,

a sack of groceries at her side,

riding the St.Charles line home

as she has done every day now

for almost forty years.


The route is mapped out before her,

sights and sound memorized

like the worn photos of her wedding day.


A strange comfort, these clanks and hums,

these breaks in the neutral ground.

She crosses herself as the churches pass by,

hands as delicate and soft as tissue,

as brown as the leaves on the trees passing by

in the bleak light of a late november afternoon

Oak, magnolia and willow,

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

---------------------------------
Written by: Steve Miller
http://novembersong.blogspot.com/

cotton pickin' time

I hear a familiar sound...the drone of the cotton picker. Farmer Joey is making the first pass around the field across the road. His rounds there are the culmination of an entire growing season that started in the spring and meandered through a hot hot summer where scouts on four wheelers did their inspections on schedule to check the traps for pests that feed on Tennessee humidity.

It's amazing how little I know about farming, considering that I've spent most of my life on one. Many of my memories are about the cattle and the lengths that my Daddy has gone to care for them. He and my brother put numbered tags on their ears and know them all at a glance by name or character. Last week was pregnancy check time in preparation for the birthing season. There's been many a night in my childhood that Daddy would put on his insulated coveralls and go out into a snowy pasture to rescue a Mama cow in distress with the birthing, chains and all. These days they are bred to deliver mostly BEFORE January so the midwife can sleep all night. He's gettin' too old for that middle of the night cow duty.

That cold seems a long way off right now with temps still close to 90. It will come quickly, though. Tennessee is right smack in the middle of the best and the worst of each and every season. I intend to enjoy this one for all it's worth. One never knows when she will see the next one turn the corner.When we were kids, my brothers liked to play in the trailers full of cotton. One day somebody decided to set fire to the stuff and see what happened. I didn't see it, but the story goes that Bubba ran for help to rescue younger brother from the flames. They also rode on the tractor with Daddy when he put hay out for the cattle or went out to check on things. My daughter has done the same tractor ride with her G'daddy. It's in our blood I reckon.

God bless American farmers for keeping on keepin' on when imports are cheaper and the weather is their worst enemy. Soybeans are next on the agenda. Their golden stalks are drying up just right for harvest '05.

I'll keep ya posted.

A Southern Gal Ventures North

Written by: J. Butterfly
http://gadgeteer.net/southgirl

I was born, and raised in Alabama. My southern roots are not very deep, as my mother's mom was from California,and my father's family was from New York.

My mom's father is the only truly Southern link, as he was born in Fayette, Alabama. None the less, I am a Southern girl.

I lived in Alabama until Fall of my 32nd year. I met and married a wonderful man from Canada in November of 2002, and decided to journey North for a new life. British Columbia to be exact.

I knew that this would be a big adjustment for me, and that my life would different in many ways. I was up for the challenge, and after nearly 3 years, I am comfortable in knowing that I
have found a new home.

I miss so many things about my Southern life. Southern food being at the top of the list! There are days I crave tastes of the South, I can hardly stand it. Catfish, barbeque, cornbread, grits, and biscuits to name a few. Actually there is a place in Vancouver that specializes in Southern Barbeque, and even though it is right up there with the best I have had in the South, it still isn't the same.

'Real' iced tea is only a luxury I can have at home, because iced tea served in restaurants is a premade sweetend instant mix of some sort. There is no such thing as unsweetened iced tea. In fact, if you order 'tea' in Canada , you will be served hot tea. If you want 'iced tea', you better say 'iced tea', and then it will be this syrupy brown concoction. I really don't like it much, though it is
palatable.

I make my own biscuits, because there isn't a place I have found you can get a biscuit anywhere. Biscuits here are more like a cookie. So you can forget about going out for a sausage biscuit around these parts. I have been told you can get buttermilk here, but I have yet to see any. Sausage is another thing, you can get breakfast links, but forget about finding seasoned
pork sausage. I have found similar, but nothing like Jimmy Dean! Grits don't exist here. Cornmeal can be found, but self-rising anything doesn't, including flour. Butter Peas, crowder peas, field peas... I miss you so.

We live in the city, so many sounds of the South I miss as well. Crickets, and frogs in the Summertime, thunderstorms, and the evening cry of the bobwhite are just a few of those sounds.

Aside from these differences the beautiful countryside reminds me of my Southern home.
Outside the city limits, the BC interior is some of the most beautiful countryside you will ever lay your eyes on. Rolling farmland for as far as the eye can see, dotted with houses, cattle and
beautiful glacier lakes. The sounds of the Loon make a lovely replacement to the sounds of the Bobwhite. Adding beautiful snowcapped mountains to the view, and it is like heaven.

My husband and I bought five acres of land in the BC interior a little over a year ago. We long for the day we can move up there, and build our home.

Canada is a vast and beautiful country, and I am happy to be a part of it. Even though Canada is now my home, I will alway be a Southern girl at heart.