A True Southerner

I just finished flipping through an old Southern Living while Tate took a nap and my casserole simmered in the oven. As most everyone knows, the defining magazine of our region thoroughly covers the basic three in a girl's life: food, gardening, and home. I'm a little distraught; despite the formative years under my mother's tutelage, I'm not doing too well living up to the ideals of a Southern woman. There's nothing growing in my backyard, not flowers or tomatoes, I don't like sweet tea, and there's not a thing in my house with a visible monogram. I used to have a beautiful silver wine stopper (a wedding gift) with our monogram, but last time I saw it the boys had it out in the backyard, so I don't think that counts.

I don't know where I could have fallen off the wagon. I took piano lessons, sang in church, and remember coming home from my mama's house many times with little clippings from one of her beautiful plants, visions dancing in my head of my own potted plant spilling over its plastic container and dripping toward the ground. I'll never forget pulling up to her house in the summertime, her porch beckoning with greeenery and other brightly colored foliage that took my breath away. This was a place where flowers and plants went to get in shape, the Gold's Gym of geraniums. This was the plant world on steroids. Yet today, my front porch sings quietly with only two ferns, and I bought them already grown and they will likely be there only a matter of months until the sun and lack of love cause them to die. Strike one!

If there's another rubber-necking moment that happens quite often to this Southern girl trying to prove her roots, it's the moment when I mention at a tea, luncheon, or wedding rehearsal that I don't drink Sweet Tea. And yes I capitalize it because that's how important it is around here. McDonald's will give you a large sweet tea for only a dollar. Ask for a large Coke-- $1.69 please. And before anyone asks me if i've tried it, Yes, if only accidentally. And No, it wasn't love at first sip. Strike two!

Finally, despite the plethora of monogram and specialty shops on every corner of small town USA, I have NOTHING in this house marked with our initials. All three of our children are boys and Billy is FIRMLY opposed to little boys wearing monogrammed outfits, so that's a definite no. Moving into the bathroom. The most I can say about our bath and hand towels is that they are black and red and work with the Georgia theme I had planned. The kitchen is no better. I'm lucky if I can find a kitchen towel when I need one. Most of them leave the kitchen wrapped around a freeze pop in the hands of a 7 year old. Strike three!

So what's a girl to do? Should I read more Southern Livings? Take better notes when I'm at my mom's house? Suck it up (literally)and order a tall glass of Sweet Tea, just to save face? Actually, the more I think about it, I may not be so far off. I did pay attention to a few things growing up. When I'm out for a jog or pushing Tate in the stroller, I wave at everyone who passes. I take a pound cake and chicken enchiladas to neighbors and friends at every birth and death; and I love the tradition of a new Easter dress every year. I've taught enough vacation bible schools that I'm a legend in the craft room.

Maybe there's still hope for this Southern girl. I'm still young. Who knows? One of these days Billy may come home to find me sitting in my garden, surrounded by hydrangeas and azaleas, wearing a monogrammed apron, and sipping a sweet tea.