Rocks In My Dryer

Where I'm From

This post was originally published on June 26, 2007.

It was a bittersweet weekend.

I've mentioned before that my parents are in the process of moving to a house in our neighborhood.  It will be the first time I've lived in the same town as my parents since I left for college.  We are absolutely thrilled by this.  Their move is in its very final stages; this last weekend, in fact, was their last in the little Arkansas town where I grew up.

This is significant to my family because my dad, and his dad, and his dad have lived in "Mayberry" for a zillion years, making countless dear friends and leaving an imprint on the community which cannot be measured (and I'm not bragging--it's all my family's doing, not mine.  The extent of my contribution to the community was twirling a fire baton at homecoming a couple of years, without setting anyone on fire).   

My brother's family and my own met there this past weekend to say "goodbye" to our old haunts.  While my parents will likely be returning there to visit, my brother and I know that it will likely be a very, very long time until we return.

The weekend included a community-sponsored "roast" of my Dad, all in good fun and uproariously funny.  I gave a sweaty-palmed speech (I loathe public speaking to the core of being, but I'd do it for my dad) as did many others.  And at the risk of sounding corny (though we both know I passed that a LONG time ago) I can tell you that I don't think I've ever been so proud of my parents.  Hearing all those people pay tribute to them, all the while knowing they're embarking with great courage on a huge life change--well, I could just burst.

Anyway, our weekend was spent re-visiting all the places that have meant so much to me:  the house were I grew up, the cemetary where my grandparents are buried, my schools, my friends' old houses, the church where I met Jesus and married my husband...really, I'm just a big, sappy, homegrown ball of emotion as I think about it. 

This town is a place all its own, and I took a few pictures to prove it (more pictures are here).

For starters, we took the kids out to an old swimming hole just outside of town--gorgeous place.  I never realized how pretty the hills of Arkansas are until I left them.  Here's my dad with two of my boys:

Here's a shot of the downtown.  I told you it was just like Mayberry:

Most of the local business are patriotic.  Just a little:

This is the picturesque building that housed the business my grandfather, then my dad, built:

Next is the A-1 Superstop, home of the finest biscuits west of the Mississippi.  Actually, I included this picture because my husband reminded me this weekend of the time we were visiting Mayberry and he (a confirmed big-city boy) ran in to the A-1 to grab a bottle of water.  The cashier had just finished a conversation with a previous customer, and she turned to my Hubs and said, "Man, there's nothing worse than opening up the newspaper to find your name listed in the arrest warrants section, is there?"  My bewildered Hubs mumbled something about "hate it when that happens":

This last shot is just because I couldn't resist.  In Mayberry there's a bait shop next door to the Sonic.  Because, you know, nothing puts me in the mood for a Diet Cherry Limeade like chicken liver:

I love that place, and I'm feeling the kind of rest that comes from a good, long look at one's roots.  I miss it--just a little--already.

This post was originally published on June 26, 2007.

It was a bittersweet weekend.

I've mentioned before that my parents are in the process of moving to a house in our neighborhood.  It will be the first time I've lived in the same town as my parents since I left for college.  We are absolutely thrilled by this.  Their move is in its very final stages; this last weekend, in fact, was their last in the little Arkansas town where I grew up.

This is significant to my family because my dad, and his dad, and his dad have lived in "Mayberry" for a zillion years, making countless dear friends and leaving an imprint on the community which cannot be measured (and I'm not bragging--it's all my family's doing, not mine.  The extent of my contribution to the community was twirling a fire baton at homecoming a couple of years, without setting anyone on fire).   

My brother's family and my own met there this past weekend to say "goodbye" to our old haunts.  While my parents will likely be returning there to visit, my brother and I know that it will likely be a very, very long time until we return.

The weekend included a community-sponsored "roast" of my Dad, all in good fun and uproariously funny.  I gave a sweaty-palmed speech (I loathe public speaking to the core of being, but I'd do it for my dad) as did many others.  And at the risk of sounding corny (though we both know I passed that a LONG time ago) I can tell you that I don't think I've ever been so proud of my parents.  Hearing all those people pay tribute to them, all the while knowing they're embarking with great courage on a huge life change--well, I could just burst.

Anyway, our weekend was spent re-visiting all the places that have meant so much to me:  the house were I grew up, the cemetary where my grandparents are buried, my schools, my friends' old houses, the church where I met Jesus and married my husband...really, I'm just a big, sappy, homegrown ball of emotion as I think about it. 

This town is a place all its own, and I took a few pictures to prove it (more pictures are here).

For starters, we took the kids out to an old swimming hole just outside of town--gorgeous place.  I never realized how pretty the hills of Arkansas are until I left them.  Here's my dad with two of my boys:

Here's a shot of the downtown.  I told you it was just like Mayberry:

Most of the local business are patriotic.  Just a little:

This is the picturesque building that housed the business my grandfather, then my dad, built:

Next is the A-1 Superstop, home of the finest biscuits west of the Mississippi.  Actually, I included this picture because my husband reminded me this weekend of the time we were visiting Mayberry and he (a confirmed big-city boy) ran in to the A-1 to grab a bottle of water.  The cashier had just finished a conversation with a previous customer, and she turned to my Hubs and said, "Man, there's nothing worse than opening up the newspaper to find your name listed in the arrest warrants section, is there?"  My bewildered Hubs mumbled something about "hate it when that happens":

This last shot is just because I couldn't resist.  In Mayberry there's a bait shop next door to the Sonic.  Because, you know, nothing puts me in the mood for a Diet Cherry Limeade like chicken liver:

I love that place, and I'm feeling the kind of rest that comes from a good, long look at one's roots.  I miss it--just a little--already.

An Open Letter To Yankees Regarding Use of the Word "Y'all"

Dear Northern People (and yes, we really do call you "Yankees" behind your back, but we mean it in the nicest way possible),

It would appear that many of you are beginning to desire to add the word "y'all" to your vocabulary.  I do not blame you.  It is an excellent word, rich in culture, and full of practical application.  And we Southerners are gracious (MY STARS, we are gracious).  We will share this word with you happily, because we feel should not be discriminated against just because you did not have the good sense to be born in God's Country.

So by all means, take our word "y'all" and use it with pride.  You are just as welcome to it as you can be.  But please, please, use it properly.  An improper "y'all" use is just a slap in the face of all we hold dear, and we cannot bear it.  Here is what you need to know:

1.  "Y'all" is never, ever, ever, EVER singular.  It must refer to a group.  If you refer to one person as y'all, then, I'm sorry, but we can hear your Yankee-ness loud and clear.

2.  Even if you have a thick New York accent, you must attempt to say "y'all" with a southern accent.  "Y'all" spoken with a northern accent just does not work.  Go ahead, throw yourself into it: YA-A-A-AWL.  Please pronounce every one of those A's.

3.  You may hear your Southern friends say "all y'all".  This is perfectly acceptable for native Southerners.  If you are a transplant, tread carefully.  In order to pull off "all y'all", you have to have some heritage behind you.

4.  Conversely, do NOT use "y'all guys."  It is just wrong.  And when you leave the room we will laugh at you, but we will be sure to tack on a "bless his heart" at the end.

5.  Let us discuss the spelling.  "Y'all" is a contraction of "you" and "all".  Therefore, the apostrophe MUST go in the place of the "ou".  It is "y'all".  Not "ya'll".

6.  Be prepared.  If you adopt our fine word and go back home to your northern friends and family, they will give you great grief for sounding like a hillbilly.  Bear up, my friend--it is a burden we Southerners have borne for years.  Be comforted that your new word brings with it the brilliant heritage of Faulkner and O'Connor.  And also cheese grits.

All For the Love Of a Lost Dumpling

Several weeks ago, I lost the recipe card that held my chicken and dumpling recipe.  That may not sound particularly tragic to you, but then again, you've never eaten my chicken and dumplings.  If you had, you would understand the magnitude of the loss.

I was so frustrated by this.  I dug through my over-run recipe box, through every section, even the non-dumpling related ones.  The recipe was gone. 

This helped me decide something I'd been thinking for a while, that the index card method of storing recipes probably isn't the most efficient one.  It's too easy for cards to get misplaced, and, even if they're in the right section, it still takes too long to dig for the one you want.  There had to be a better way.

So I've spent the last several weeks transferring my recipes to a Word document, one I can print out and store in a three-ring binder, compete with page protectors to protect from the cooking mess.  It's my own personal cookbook, if you will.  I know there is software that helps with this, or even does it for you, but I felt like keeping my own hands on the project.  And I'm glad I did it.  Even though I'm not a lover of cooking or recipes, and even though this whole project had its tedious moments, I've really enjoyed the process.  Here's why.

First of all, I have chuckled at my own ambition as a young bride.  Most of the recipes crammed in box had been clipped and saved from my earliest newlywed days.  I can still picture myself, hunched over our tiny table in our 500-square-foot apartment, dreaming big dreams of made-from-scratch meals. 

I got over that one pretty quickly.  In this most recent purge, I tossed just about any recipe that had more than seven or eight ingredients. 

Another reason this task has been so fun is browsing my collection of family recipes--those recipe cards I could never part with, not in a million years.  I have recipes handwritten by both mine and my husband's grandmothers.  Hubs' grandmother, a grand Southern lady in the truest sense of the word, provided commentary on hers.  When she shared with me her mama's Karo Nut Pie Recipe (which, incidentally, is made entirely of "a pinch of this" and "a dash of that" and thus dooms me from the start), she noted that over the years she finally caved and "used a store-bought pastry."  But, she added, in a voice I can positively hear through the recipe card, "Mama didn't."

And lastly, reading through all these recipes has reminded me a thing or two about writing down recipes for my own future generations.  Lesson number one?  Keep it simple.  I think that sometimes recipe authors are a little bit control-freakish.  I'll admit that I roll my eyes a little at recipes that read like this:

Add half the flour, and stir eight times counter-clockwise.  Add two pinches of salt, one egg and remaining flour.  Stir as you pour, but not too fast, and only blend until moistened.

Really?  If a recipe truly requires that much choreography, I'll just enjoy it at the bakery.

(And, by the way, have you ever noticed how many recipes tell you to "add eggs one at a time"?  Unless you're, I don't know, an octopus, is there any other way to do it?)

Here's my finished product.  In the left-hand picture, my new cookbook is the tallest one, in the center.  In the right-hand picture, you can see an inside shot, since I have it propped ever-so-artfully open.  I thought I should make it look like I was in the middle of cooking.  Might have helped if I'd actually put something in the bowl, don't you think? 

I love my re-organized collection, and now that I've culled down to the basics, I'm really enjoying some old favorites I'd long forgotten.  In fact, I've stumbled across so many recipes I love that I will probably be sharing a few of them here on the blog over the coming months. 

But I promise, I will not tell you how many times to stir.  You're on your own.

(P.S.  Yes, I found the dumpling recipe.  Stay tuned...)

The Southern Girl's Guide To Proper Political Discourse: What Your Momma Should've Told You

So, I don't know if you've heard, but they're thinking of electing a new president.

Of course you've heard.  You couldn't have missed it, with all the shouting from both sides (we are a nation of equal opportunity meanies).  Some of the vitriol I've seen and read has made me feel suddenly less alarmed by the scuffles that sometimes erupt in the back of my mini-van.   

I know you've heard of political correctness, the idea of conducting yourself in a way to "minimize offense".  You might think that notion was invented by the media, or sociologists.  But you would be wrong.

It was invented by Southern women. 

We've made "minimizing offensiveness" an art form.  We do it all day.  We are trained to do it at our mothers' knees.  In fact, I remember, quite distinctly, my parents telling me never, ever to bring up politics or money in conversation unless you were absolutely certain where the other person stood.  And even then, you should proceed carefully.

Since I have received such fine training myself, I thought I would offer up the following to the Whole Entire Internet, Or At Least The Portion That Blogs About Politics.

1.  Do not make assumptions that the person you're talking with must vote a certain way because of her gender, race, religion, or shoe size.  That simply tells your conversation partner that you don't think she's smart enough to make up her own mind, and that is just plain tacky.  Anyway, you know what they say about assumptions....well, I'll let you look that one up on your own.

2.  To expand on #1, when you begin a political discussion with a stranger or acquaintance, do not launch into a tirade about how horrible Senator Joe Don is, because this stranger might be voting for Joe Don.  Heck, your stranger might have a Daddy whose old football coach once had his hair cut by Joe Don's niece.  It is the South, you know.

3.  Name calling is completely, always inappropriate.  But if you really feel you must throw around words such as "socialist" and "radical right-wing nut-job", it would soften things a bit if you would insert a "bless his heart" at the end of sentence.

4.  When you go to the polls in November, please do not wear white shoes, because that is after Labor Day.  It has nothing to do with politics, but I just needed to squeeze it in.

5.  Do not blanket statements of fact:  "ALL Republicans are money-hungry," or "ALL Democrats are overly emotional," or "All Texans have big hair."  Blanket statements are almost never true, and they just make the speaker sound desperate and uninformed.  And anyway, I've known plenty of Texans whose hair size was only slightly above average.

6.  It's okay to disagree with someone and still like them.  Even if they're voting for the Other Guy, or--worse--cheering for the University of Texas football team.  (I know.  I'm bagging on Texas a little.  They're big, they can handle it.)

7.  Be charming.  If you find yourself utterly and completely annoyed, then make a joke.  If charming doesn't work, head straight for that great old friend of Southern women, passive-aggressiveness.  You could even, perhaps, and I'm speaking purely hypothetically here, write a blog post about it... 

Secret Confessions Of a Closet Country Music Fan

I used to hate country music.  Hated it. 

I grew up in small-town, rural Arkansas, where life in general was a giant country music song.  You know, Momma's In the Back Of the Pick-Up With My Hound Dog Lloyd, and We're Headed To a Swap Meet After We Drive Through At the Moonshine Store.

(Not my momma, let me be clear.  Mine wore penny loafers and Estee Lauder perfume.  Just clearing that up, because if I did not, I would be receiving a phone call from that same momma in 4.7 seconds.)

But all around me I was surrounded by people who loved country music--lived it, in fact.  They were delightful people.  I loved them.  But I would not be one of them.  I just knew I was Going Places.  And these places didn't have honky tonks.

But then I went to the University of Arkansas, and in the early 1990's they only granted diplomas to people who could recite the alternate concert verse of "I've Got Friends In Low Places".  Seriously.  You can check the school charter. 

I sang along a little, and I even two-stepped some (if the boy was cute enough), but I mostly held out.  I knew in my heart I was too sophisticated for a song that couldn't properly conjugate a verb.  ("He done me wrong."  Really?)

Fast-forward a few years, to my mid-twenties.  I was living in a downtown Chicago high-rise with my husband and new baby.  I was just as metropolitan as I could be.  I rode the El, I pushed my son's stroller along the shores of Lake Michigan, and I even stifled my southern accent enough that the grocery checker stopped looking at me like I was speaking Hungarian.

I battled a little homesickness, but mostly?  I had arrived. 

And then it happened.

One afternoon I was flipping through the radio channels, and I heard the staticky sound of a country music song.

It was the sound of home.  And in that moment, all my years of resistance left me faster than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

I found myself visiting Best Buy, wandering aimlessly toward the country music CD section.  My husband's favorite Clint Black CD, which I had previously banished, somehow made its way into my car.  And I sang along with it.  I was, in the face of my own homesickness, coming to terms that the fact that the twangy sound of country music had, evidently, been taking root in my subconcious for all those years. 

I was a country music fan.

I was sheepish about it for a while, listening on the sly, never admitting it to a soul.  But I'm alright with it now, realizing that our musical tastes will naturally become more diverse as we age (says the girl who has REM, Pavarotti and the Gaithers on the very same iPod).  I've learned that music can really speak deeply to the people we are, and the people we were. 

I've also learned that you can't sing along to a song called "Big Ol' Truck" and still take yourself too seriously.