Growing Up Southern

Friend Richard is working on a new book about growing up Southern. We Southerners take our idiosyncracies for granted, I believe, and are taken aback when some little quirk that comes so naturally to us - speech, mannerisms, humor, story-telling - is pointed out to us by non-Southerners. As much as I want to pass on some pithy anecdotes for Richard's book, this ingrained-ness has made teasing out the stuff distinctly "Southern" troublesome for me.

Of course there are the usual suspects: our over-the-top love of Co-Cola, fried okra, church on Sunday, family reunions, outrageous (and outrageously told) stories, Gospel music, Steel Magnolia mamas, hard-workin' daddies (pronounced "deddies"), and Vacation Bible School.

And the burdens we carry: antebellum/plantation/slave-ownin' history, gun-totin' bubbas, trailer trash, some folks who are conservative-to-the-point-of-unChristian, 100%+ humidity in the summertime, and the fact that any time a news organization interviews someone from the South, they head for the fattest, greasiest, most toothless idiot they can find. (Hey! Who's in charge of PR for the South?  We've got some shorin' up to do.)

But delving into my mama-isms, school and church experiences, and musical tastes (be that music or food), a lot of what I'm coming up with may or may not be distinctly Southern. Maybe it's more about the time and circumstances into which I was born - "Greatest Generation" parents/"Baby Boomer" kids in 1950s/60s. Maybe it's just the standard middle-class experience of that era with a Southern swirl on top.

I do have a solid list of real Southern stuff to pass along. Deep down inside, I know that I'm different from anyone raised outside the South. Yes, there is some indefensible baggage, but mostly it's wonderful, shiny, hilarious DNA that I'm proud to have.

But if any of you Southerners have something you'd like to pass on to Richard for his book, let me know and I'll put you in contact with him.

Southern Sounds for Summer

I've decided to spend the summer with Southern authors. From now to Labor Day, only voices from the South will be downloaded onto my iPod to enhance my daily commute, airline travels, and rambles 'round the big city. The last couple of summers have been dedicated to Tales of the (Real, aka New York) City, but I need a change.

It's amazing the number of fine books I've missed over the years, so I'm creating my very own summer reading list. Goodbye, Bookmobile! Hello, iPod! The goal is to find golden gems from Southern writers that have somehow escaped my attention and plug 'em into my little portable story-tellin' device. I'm looking for any and all suggestions of such literature available via audiobook for download, preferably from free sites, like the library.

First up: Olive Ann Burns' Cold Sassy Tree. My only defense for missing this when it came out in 1984 was that I had a year-old child at the time, and keeping up with bestsellers was not high on my must-do list. Second up: As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. I've read a lot of Faulkner, except for this one, and am looking forward to having someone do the work of reading it to me so that I can just sit back and enjoy the language and the story.

I don't have a Third Up yet, so feel free to suggest away. Remember, I'm looking for American Southern - Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Virginia, Kentucky, and, yeah, I'll accept the city of Baltimore. Just send me the title and author, and I'll search it out. Doesn't have to be "Great Literature," just good Southern story-telling.

And if I can't find it in audio-form, I'll read it the old fashioned way, by turning its pages before going to sleep at night.

The Bartow Mothers

On this Mother's Day, here's to Mother and the other Sisters Bartow:

Marie, who never had any children, but could boss us around with the best of 'em and gave us money for Christmas instead of something useless.

Helen, the sweet one who once told me that eating the stings of a banana would kill me. (And they just might. Someday.) Mother of cousins Ann and Steve.

Mildred, who had a vocal preference for boy-children until her grand-daughter Amy was born. Mother of cousins Jimmy and Bobby.

Catherine, my own mother, who like to quote Bible verses that were actually Shakespeare. Mother of brothers Bill and David, sister Cindy, and moi.

We miss you all so much on this Mother's Day and know you're celebrating the day looking down with love on children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren from above.

The Family Christmas Picture

One of the joys of Christmas when I was growing up was having the whole wonderful day to explore what Santa Claus left under the tree without having to worry about putting on proper clothes - unless they were new ones you wanted to try on - or get fancied up for visitors. It was satisfying to just be, just hang out, taking interesting games and toys out of their boxes and seeing how they worked, no schedule, no rush to get anywhere. Yep. That's pretty much the way it was.

Except for the "Family Christmas Picture" years. Daddy's boss, Mr. Earl Taylor, was an amateur photographer back when cameras were complicated things. For some reason that was never really explained to us, Mr. Taylor was keen and generous enough to offer to come to our house on Christmas morning to take a Frazier family portrait. I put "keen" first, because I never really thought of it as being "generous" at the time. It was a pain in the butt.

Seemed Mr. Taylor always came by well before noon, so we had to scurry around, cleaning up wrapping paper and ribbon, organizing our gifts well before we wanted them organized (we were still exploring them), and - eeyew! - get out of our comfy pjs and into our Sunday church clothes. It also meant scrubbing down and curling hair and brushing teeth. It all seemed like a big intrusion to me. All for a silly picture. Just to give Mr. Taylor something to do on Christmas morning.

I don't know the real reason Mr. Taylor turned up on our doorstep, camera and tripod in hand, on Christmas morning. He and his wife didn't have children, I seem to remember, so maybe this was a way for him to get a taste of what a chaotic experience Christmas was when four active kids were thrown into the mix. Or maybe he just wanted to hone his photographic portrait skills and the Frazier family was the perfect set of guinea pigs. Or maybe this was his gift to Daddy for a year's good work.

But whatever the reason we are left with Mr. Taylor's good gift as a reminder of a couple of childhood Christmases and a pretty adorable family (in a 1950's kind of way). So I guess having to leave our Santa goodies behind for a while and dress in our Sunday best early on Christmas morning was worth it after all. You be the judge.

Merry Christmas to all!

Oh, Georgia, stop embarrassing me!

I love the state of Georgia. It has the best state song ever, "Georgia On My Mind" (actually written about a woman named Georgia, not the state, rumor has it). Atlanta is a beautiful city, though it tends to knock down anything with a decade's worth of history. Its neighborhoods are the loveliest anywhere, especially those with "Peachtree" in the name (Peachtree Battle, Peachtree Hills, etc.). Savannah's a beautiful, historic city. A lot of golf gets played in Augusta. The north Georgia mountains are spectacular. Yes, I love my state of Georgia.

However, dear Georgia, you are causing me real embarrassment these days on a couple of fronts.

First, "Real Housewives of Atlanta." Though I must admit that I have not watched one complete episode of this trash, I have watched enough to know that: a) they are not real; b) they are not housewives; and c) they are not from Atlanta. I think the City of Atlanta could legitimately sue Bravo Network for defamation of character (and it does take a lot to defame the ATL). The program is touted as showing "what life is like in the most exclusive areas of Atlanta" and that these are examples of "classy Southern women." God help us! No!

Um, as far as I can tell, none - as in zip, nada, none - of these women actually live in Atlanta. They are all OTP (Outside the Perimeter) - 'way outside. No self-respecting Atlantan would claim an OTP-er, however gated their McMansion neighborhoods might be. And "classy"? I'm thinking 'trashy" better describes it. And, yeah, the Orange County and New York housewives are trashy, too, but don't go attaching the women of this show to the flower of Southern womanhood.

Of course, the show's a major hit. Which is the problem. And the embarrassment. Oh, Atlanta. Your phoenix is going up in flames again!

The other really embarrassing thing for Georgia right now is the Senate race. Specifically, that appalling Thanksgiving Greeting ad by Saxby Chambliss, where his grandchildren call him "Big Daddy." I couldn't believe it when I saw it! And it airs constantly on Atlanta television. Big Daddy? What is this? A Tennessee Williams nightmare? Who calls their grandpaw "Big Daddy"? (Though it's totally Southernized as "Big Diddy.") Oh, geez! And this guy's a senator? Talk about setting us back 100 years! Aargh!

Every blogster out there, except for the ultra-right wing ones, is making huge fun of this spot and the South goes right down with it. I am so mortified that we come from the same neck of the woods. Thank goodness the election's over after tomorrow. And I hope we're spared from seeing what ol' Saxby has up his, er, sleeve for Christmas.

Georgia is full of smart, wise, classy people - liberal and conservative - who would never stoop to "Real Housewives" or "Big Diddy" level. At what point do we refuse to promote these backward, trashy yahoos?

Stop it. Stop it right now. Don't make me have to come home from New York to straighten you out, Georgia!