I worry that I didn’t turn off the iron. I worry that I didn’t lock the front door. I worry that the white patch on the side of my dog’s nose is skin cancer. I worry that the iron will start a fire that will burn down my house, unlocked for any passing looters to carry away all my possessions that are not yet consumed by fire, and my dog will be too weak from the cancer to scoot out the open door.
Generally, I give into this perpetual worry and wallow in it, ruining weekends and vacations and nights of sleep if I can’t find a way to dispel my anxiety. I will make phone calls, send emails, and run things through my head again and again—all to assuage my fears or, sometimes I think, to perpetuate them.
Once I’ve determined that I’ve worried for naught, I feel an immense sense of relief as if the governor has given me a last-minute reprieve on my death sentence, and I get to live. Of course, in retrospect, I almost always realize that my worrying is irrational and I make a solemn vow to never let my worry to reach this apoplectic level again. But soon enough my rational state of mind gives way to another niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach, which this time, I’m convinced really and truly could cause me to lose my job or my boyfriend or maybe even my hair.
I’ve worried about my worrying for years. I’ve done yoga and dabbled with meditation. I’ve been in therapy and I’ve even considered anti-anxiety drugs. But eventually I came to realize that worrying was as much a part of my genetic makeup as that Mr. Spock point on my left ear.
You see my mother raised me on a steady diet of anxiety. She used to worry that she hadn’t blown out a candle, locked a window or let out the cat. She’d also worry about the normal stuff like our crossing the street by ourselves or staying out too late, but she worried about these things way past when parents normally do.
When I was in college and wasn’t home when she thought I should be, my mother called my boyfriends’ houses, just to be sure they weren’t holding me against my will. And even as an adult, if I don’t answer my home phone, she calls my cell phone and if I don’t answer either, she starts a steady volley of phone calls between the two. If that doesn’t work, she calls my sister. Once when I sounded distracted on a call, my mom was convinced that someone had broken into my house and was holding me hostage.
Since I’ve started my own business, real worries, like paying my bills each month, have replaced the unfounded ones. There seems to be less space in my head for those annoying squatters to take up residence anymore. But despite my success at controlling these demons, I realize that I’m just not wired to skip merrily through life and will be making U-turns and peering over my shoulder forever. The trick, I think, is to continue moving forward in the process!
Monday, January 26, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
The fun aunt syndome
I have always taken the role of “aunt” very seriously. Because I have no children of my own, I’ve made it my mission to develop more than a “sit across the table at Thanksgiving” kind of bond with my niece and nephew.
Along the way, I must admit that I’ve cheated a bit. Because everyone knows that the quickest way to a kid’s heart is letting them have, do, and get away with everything, I’ve worked hard to be the “fun aunt.” I’ve bought my niece and nephew donuts with sprinkles, gave them quarters for the game machine, and let them stay up late, forgo their car seat through the neighborhood, and use my body as a punching bag/trampoline/jungle gym. No amount of pain or parental wrath was going to keep these kids from liking me.
For quite a while, this dynamic worked for all of us. My niece and nephew enjoyed having a playmate who came equipped with money, transportation, and privilege. I got squeals, hugs, and unadulterated excitement out of the bargain. However, someone really ought to warn us naive non-parents about the dangers of trading in the role of adult for playmate. There’s a booby trap just around the corner and personally, I walked squarely into it.
Recently, while my sister and brother-in-law attended a pool party, I volunteered to babysit for my 6- and 11-year-old niece and nephew. The evening started innocently enough with my niece and me watching TV and my nephew playing basketball outside. When my nephew grew bored outside and came in the house to antagonize the girls, that’s when trouble ensued.
Before I knew it, we were chasing each other around the house, fending off each other’s assaults and slamming doors to block our respective pursuers. During one of these defensive acts, my finger unluckily was positioned directly in the door’s path and the end of this ill-fated digit was smashed like a pecan in a nutcracker. After I yelped in pain – and surprise – the first thing out of my six-year-old niece’s mouth wasn’t “are you ok?” or “we’re sorry” or even “we didn’t mean to.” Instead, it was “It’s your own fault because you started it.”
I slunk to the kitchen to nurse my hurt finger. But what stung even more than my injury was my complete and utter impotence in the situation. Because I had never once seriously disciplined these kids, they didn’t expect me to and I didn’t know how. I had willingly forfeited these kids’ respect years ago in exchange for a regular dose of hugs and high fives. Now that we were all “pals,” they accorded me the same indifference that they would’ve given any of their buddies. I knew that any chance of commanding a little respect with these ruffians would be seriously derailed unless I did something quick.
Pushing back my hurt (finger and feelings), I summoned my grownup courage and most authoritative voice and asked them to come out so we could talk. I told them that I was angry at them, not because they had accidentally slammed my finger in the door (yes, I was as much to blame as they) but because they had not apologized. My finger was truly injured (I pointed a swelling exhibit A at them as proof) and I might not be able to type, i.e. do my job, for a few days. And for good measure, I threw in that I was indeed a grownup, whether they knew it or not, and back-talking wouldn’t fly with me anymore.
The two of them were stunned by this unexpected display of adult bravado from me and sheepishly, they both apologized. Before their parents returned that night, they included me in a game of flashlight tag – their way of telling me that they still liked me, adult or not. By accepting, I let them know that all was forgiven.
While I implied that I would report this little episode to their parents, I decided against it. As a newly minted adult, I had to learn to assert my own authority without using the threat of my sister and brother-in-law’s power as a crutch. And maybe, deep down, I still wanted to keep the tiniest vestige of my old identity in tact. After all, “fun aunts” never squeal.
Along the way, I must admit that I’ve cheated a bit. Because everyone knows that the quickest way to a kid’s heart is letting them have, do, and get away with everything, I’ve worked hard to be the “fun aunt.” I’ve bought my niece and nephew donuts with sprinkles, gave them quarters for the game machine, and let them stay up late, forgo their car seat through the neighborhood, and use my body as a punching bag/trampoline/jungle gym. No amount of pain or parental wrath was going to keep these kids from liking me.
For quite a while, this dynamic worked for all of us. My niece and nephew enjoyed having a playmate who came equipped with money, transportation, and privilege. I got squeals, hugs, and unadulterated excitement out of the bargain. However, someone really ought to warn us naive non-parents about the dangers of trading in the role of adult for playmate. There’s a booby trap just around the corner and personally, I walked squarely into it.
Recently, while my sister and brother-in-law attended a pool party, I volunteered to babysit for my 6- and 11-year-old niece and nephew. The evening started innocently enough with my niece and me watching TV and my nephew playing basketball outside. When my nephew grew bored outside and came in the house to antagonize the girls, that’s when trouble ensued.
Before I knew it, we were chasing each other around the house, fending off each other’s assaults and slamming doors to block our respective pursuers. During one of these defensive acts, my finger unluckily was positioned directly in the door’s path and the end of this ill-fated digit was smashed like a pecan in a nutcracker. After I yelped in pain – and surprise – the first thing out of my six-year-old niece’s mouth wasn’t “are you ok?” or “we’re sorry” or even “we didn’t mean to.” Instead, it was “It’s your own fault because you started it.”
I slunk to the kitchen to nurse my hurt finger. But what stung even more than my injury was my complete and utter impotence in the situation. Because I had never once seriously disciplined these kids, they didn’t expect me to and I didn’t know how. I had willingly forfeited these kids’ respect years ago in exchange for a regular dose of hugs and high fives. Now that we were all “pals,” they accorded me the same indifference that they would’ve given any of their buddies. I knew that any chance of commanding a little respect with these ruffians would be seriously derailed unless I did something quick.
Pushing back my hurt (finger and feelings), I summoned my grownup courage and most authoritative voice and asked them to come out so we could talk. I told them that I was angry at them, not because they had accidentally slammed my finger in the door (yes, I was as much to blame as they) but because they had not apologized. My finger was truly injured (I pointed a swelling exhibit A at them as proof) and I might not be able to type, i.e. do my job, for a few days. And for good measure, I threw in that I was indeed a grownup, whether they knew it or not, and back-talking wouldn’t fly with me anymore.
The two of them were stunned by this unexpected display of adult bravado from me and sheepishly, they both apologized. Before their parents returned that night, they included me in a game of flashlight tag – their way of telling me that they still liked me, adult or not. By accepting, I let them know that all was forgiven.
While I implied that I would report this little episode to their parents, I decided against it. As a newly minted adult, I had to learn to assert my own authority without using the threat of my sister and brother-in-law’s power as a crutch. And maybe, deep down, I still wanted to keep the tiniest vestige of my old identity in tact. After all, “fun aunts” never squeal.
Manna from Chesapeake Bay Heaven
Recently, while our fingers were buried in the bellies of two big fat blue Jimmies, my sister asked me “can you imagine what our lives would’ve been like if we hadn’t learned to pick crabs?” At first, I dismissed the question with a shrug. We’d miss some good eating, I thought, but it wouldn’t exactly have changed our lives.
But then I thought about it a little longer and realized that the blue crab represents a lot more to our family than the simple act of popping off the shell and scooping out that manna from Chesapeake Bay heaven. Being from the Eastern Shore, crabs are as much a part of the fabric of our lives as skiing is to a native of Aspen or eating crawfish is to a Cajun.
Growing up on the Eastern Shore, my sister and I practically cuts our teeth on crabs.
But the funny thing is that neither of us remembers actually being taught to pick crabs. As far as we know, when we were big enough to reach the table atop a couple of Sears catalogs and strong enough to spring the crabs loose from their shells, our fingers just started picking.
Conversely, it’s difficult to be good at picking crabs if you were not born to it. I’ve tried to teach numerous out-of-towners how to pop off the back, scrape off the deadman’s fingers, and use their fingers to dig out the meat. However, if it isn’t part of your breeding, the process is probably about as appetizing as gutting a fish and popping it in your mouth.
But the crab experience is hardly just about picking. When we were kids, a day that ended with crabs began dangling a chicken neck – attached to a piece of twine – into the water. This process required quite a bit of deception and patience for a bunch of little girls (my cousins included), whose best skills were giggling and talking nonstop. Once the crab began nibbling, it was our job to keep him from figuring out that his meal was about to turn him into ours…at least long enough for my dad to scoop him up in the net. Needless to say, our paltry catch generally had to be supplemented with my dad’s skill with a chicken neck or at the seafood market on the way home.
As we grew older and crabs grew scarcer, we began buying our live crabs in bushel baskets and our crab experience instead began around the steamer pot. Just like lobster, crabs must be dropped in the steamer while they’re still kicking and clawing. I can remember many a crab scuttling across the kitchen floor and my sister and me running for higher ground. And as the crabs meet their untimely death at the surface of the Budweiser and Old Bay boil, they let out a sound that has always resembled a cry of pain to me. Steaming crabs is not for the faint of heart.
Nowadays I live in inland Virginia so I only get to pick crabs about three times a season. But despite my lack of proximity to a pile of crabs, I will still choose a crab dish over a filet mignon any day of the week. And I haven’t lost my ability to size up a crab cake from 40 paces. So I guess I have to take that leap of logic and agree with my sister (just this once) that crabs indeed have “changed our lives.”
But then I thought about it a little longer and realized that the blue crab represents a lot more to our family than the simple act of popping off the shell and scooping out that manna from Chesapeake Bay heaven. Being from the Eastern Shore, crabs are as much a part of the fabric of our lives as skiing is to a native of Aspen or eating crawfish is to a Cajun.
Growing up on the Eastern Shore, my sister and I practically cuts our teeth on crabs.
But the funny thing is that neither of us remembers actually being taught to pick crabs. As far as we know, when we were big enough to reach the table atop a couple of Sears catalogs and strong enough to spring the crabs loose from their shells, our fingers just started picking.
Conversely, it’s difficult to be good at picking crabs if you were not born to it. I’ve tried to teach numerous out-of-towners how to pop off the back, scrape off the deadman’s fingers, and use their fingers to dig out the meat. However, if it isn’t part of your breeding, the process is probably about as appetizing as gutting a fish and popping it in your mouth.
But the crab experience is hardly just about picking. When we were kids, a day that ended with crabs began dangling a chicken neck – attached to a piece of twine – into the water. This process required quite a bit of deception and patience for a bunch of little girls (my cousins included), whose best skills were giggling and talking nonstop. Once the crab began nibbling, it was our job to keep him from figuring out that his meal was about to turn him into ours…at least long enough for my dad to scoop him up in the net. Needless to say, our paltry catch generally had to be supplemented with my dad’s skill with a chicken neck or at the seafood market on the way home.
As we grew older and crabs grew scarcer, we began buying our live crabs in bushel baskets and our crab experience instead began around the steamer pot. Just like lobster, crabs must be dropped in the steamer while they’re still kicking and clawing. I can remember many a crab scuttling across the kitchen floor and my sister and me running for higher ground. And as the crabs meet their untimely death at the surface of the Budweiser and Old Bay boil, they let out a sound that has always resembled a cry of pain to me. Steaming crabs is not for the faint of heart.
Nowadays I live in inland Virginia so I only get to pick crabs about three times a season. But despite my lack of proximity to a pile of crabs, I will still choose a crab dish over a filet mignon any day of the week. And I haven’t lost my ability to size up a crab cake from 40 paces. So I guess I have to take that leap of logic and agree with my sister (just this once) that crabs indeed have “changed our lives.”
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
The kindness of strangers
You bulldoze your way through a group of total strangers, shake a million hands and feign interest in more businesses than you ever knew existed – all in the hopes of gaining a contact or two that might someday turn into an actual piece of business. It’s an agonizing, never-ending, sometimes fruitless dance, but you persist.
This morning, I pulled on my professional clothes and dusted off my meet-and-greet personality to attend not one, but two, networking opportunities. This first one started much the same as the all the others I’d been to. A Virginia Reel of sorts, we schmoozed and exchanged business cards and then moved on to the next likely prospect. However, toward the end of the hour, one of our fellow networkers started talking about how he was trying to break into a particular market and for about 15 minutes straight, a couple of us rapid-fired a stream of ideas at him. The networker was elated. It was obvious that just these few minutes had been worth getting out of bed for him.
Next up was a lunchtime meeting with a contact I had made almost a year ago. I was pretty sure the hour wouldn’t bear any fruit, but I put my skepticism aside and went anyway. But instead of leaving empty-handed, I went home with the promise of three introductions, several great ideas for attracting new business and most importantly, the genuine feeling that someone was on my side.
Today it occurred to me that, after all these months, I’ve completely missed the point of networking. Sure, we’d all like for the smiling and shaking hands to net us some business, but it’s really about so much more than that. Networking is about creating a support system.
In the corporate world, how many times do you hear, “How can I help you?” At networking events, you hear that phrase again and again. And because people are in the same boat as you, they really mean it. When they say they’ll put in a good word for you, they do. When they say “let’s do lunch,” they set a time. And when they hear about work, they share it.
When you own a small business – and especially one that consists of only you – it’s an isolating experience. It’s you against the world. Often you have no one to inspire you, no one to use as a resource and no one to even encourage you. In an otherwise dog-eat-dog world, networking gives you a feeling of camaraderie and inclusion that can often make all the difference.
I’ve met people who have led me to business, people with whom I’ve collaborated and people who have become my friends. In other words, I’ve come to rely on the kindness of strangers and for a whole lot more than I ever realized!
This morning, I pulled on my professional clothes and dusted off my meet-and-greet personality to attend not one, but two, networking opportunities. This first one started much the same as the all the others I’d been to. A Virginia Reel of sorts, we schmoozed and exchanged business cards and then moved on to the next likely prospect. However, toward the end of the hour, one of our fellow networkers started talking about how he was trying to break into a particular market and for about 15 minutes straight, a couple of us rapid-fired a stream of ideas at him. The networker was elated. It was obvious that just these few minutes had been worth getting out of bed for him.
Next up was a lunchtime meeting with a contact I had made almost a year ago. I was pretty sure the hour wouldn’t bear any fruit, but I put my skepticism aside and went anyway. But instead of leaving empty-handed, I went home with the promise of three introductions, several great ideas for attracting new business and most importantly, the genuine feeling that someone was on my side.
Today it occurred to me that, after all these months, I’ve completely missed the point of networking. Sure, we’d all like for the smiling and shaking hands to net us some business, but it’s really about so much more than that. Networking is about creating a support system.
In the corporate world, how many times do you hear, “How can I help you?” At networking events, you hear that phrase again and again. And because people are in the same boat as you, they really mean it. When they say they’ll put in a good word for you, they do. When they say “let’s do lunch,” they set a time. And when they hear about work, they share it.
When you own a small business – and especially one that consists of only you – it’s an isolating experience. It’s you against the world. Often you have no one to inspire you, no one to use as a resource and no one to even encourage you. In an otherwise dog-eat-dog world, networking gives you a feeling of camaraderie and inclusion that can often make all the difference.
I’ve met people who have led me to business, people with whom I’ve collaborated and people who have become my friends. In other words, I’ve come to rely on the kindness of strangers and for a whole lot more than I ever realized!
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Happiness is a decision
I am 40-something, unattached, childless, moderately fit, moderately sociable, living in a house that needs constant attention, driving a mid-priced gas-guzzling car, making a roller coaster living. And I am really happy.
Not more than 10 years ago, I had basically the same life, but I was pretty miserable. No, I didn’t find inner peace through meditation or religion or even read a lot of self-help books and learn to love myself. Plain and simple, I just started living.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve always wanted everything that I didn’t have. I’ve carried around a vision of the way my life should be one day – the husband, the kids, the creatively decorated house, the glamorous job and the trips that we would all take. And until my life caught up with my dreams, I just killed time waiting for the good stuff to come along.
Granted, everybody bides their time at some point – an hour before the party starts, the Friday before your week-long vacation, the week before you move on to a new job. But how many people realize that they’ve probably wasted years waiting for their lives to begin?
How many times have you heard “I’m not going to get too attached to him because I know he’s not right for me (I’m just killing time with him until Mr. Right comes along)”? Or, I’m not going to fix up my apartment because I’m going to be able to afford a house next year (I’ll be miserable in this dump until I can move into the castle)”?
That brings me to the happiness part. Living life halfway, with one eye on the present and one eye on the future is no way to be happy (and it’s a good way to become cross-eyed). Until a few years ago, I thought a better job would make me fulfilled, a trip to Club Med would make me a whole and relaxed person and a lot of money would buy me the possessions for which I longed. Though I hardly deny that any of these things would cause a definite spike in my joy graph, now I know that living life in the “here and now” is a joyful experience in itself. I now take time to figure out what little things make me happy and I do them, a lot if possible.
For example, I now know that ordering Chinese for dinner and eating it in front of a movie relaxes me, and so I give into that little piece of happiness at least once a month. I also realize that going to every social gathering that I’m invited to – just to increase my chances of meeting Mr. Right – is not a pleasurable use of my time. So I only go when I really want to go. I’ve chosen not to sacrifice present pleasure for the off-chance that it will lead to something in the future.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that everyone should settle for what they have and be happy with it. There are still many things in my life for which I strive. The difference is that I no longer wait for these events to happen; I work to make them happen and enjoy the “in between” time until they do. When I start feeling restless, I now plan short trips alone instead of waiting for a great offer from someone else to come along. I call men when I’m interested because I now know that a watched phone never rings. I find ways to fulfill myself in my career; I don’t wait for a boss to suddenly realize my great potential. I know what’s important to me and I go after it.
I guess the key to my happiness is plain and simple. I’ve grown a little older and a lot more nearsighted. And I’m not reaching for my glasses quite as much anymore.
Not more than 10 years ago, I had basically the same life, but I was pretty miserable. No, I didn’t find inner peace through meditation or religion or even read a lot of self-help books and learn to love myself. Plain and simple, I just started living.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve always wanted everything that I didn’t have. I’ve carried around a vision of the way my life should be one day – the husband, the kids, the creatively decorated house, the glamorous job and the trips that we would all take. And until my life caught up with my dreams, I just killed time waiting for the good stuff to come along.
Granted, everybody bides their time at some point – an hour before the party starts, the Friday before your week-long vacation, the week before you move on to a new job. But how many people realize that they’ve probably wasted years waiting for their lives to begin?
How many times have you heard “I’m not going to get too attached to him because I know he’s not right for me (I’m just killing time with him until Mr. Right comes along)”? Or, I’m not going to fix up my apartment because I’m going to be able to afford a house next year (I’ll be miserable in this dump until I can move into the castle)”?
That brings me to the happiness part. Living life halfway, with one eye on the present and one eye on the future is no way to be happy (and it’s a good way to become cross-eyed). Until a few years ago, I thought a better job would make me fulfilled, a trip to Club Med would make me a whole and relaxed person and a lot of money would buy me the possessions for which I longed. Though I hardly deny that any of these things would cause a definite spike in my joy graph, now I know that living life in the “here and now” is a joyful experience in itself. I now take time to figure out what little things make me happy and I do them, a lot if possible.
For example, I now know that ordering Chinese for dinner and eating it in front of a movie relaxes me, and so I give into that little piece of happiness at least once a month. I also realize that going to every social gathering that I’m invited to – just to increase my chances of meeting Mr. Right – is not a pleasurable use of my time. So I only go when I really want to go. I’ve chosen not to sacrifice present pleasure for the off-chance that it will lead to something in the future.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that everyone should settle for what they have and be happy with it. There are still many things in my life for which I strive. The difference is that I no longer wait for these events to happen; I work to make them happen and enjoy the “in between” time until they do. When I start feeling restless, I now plan short trips alone instead of waiting for a great offer from someone else to come along. I call men when I’m interested because I now know that a watched phone never rings. I find ways to fulfill myself in my career; I don’t wait for a boss to suddenly realize my great potential. I know what’s important to me and I go after it.
I guess the key to my happiness is plain and simple. I’ve grown a little older and a lot more nearsighted. And I’m not reaching for my glasses quite as much anymore.
It's not very becoming to "become" a Southerner
You can become rich, you can become a blonde, you can even become a Republican, but the fact is you just can’t “become” a Southerner. Pretty much you are or you aren’t, and not even an address on your driver’s license can alter that fact.
So when my mother moved my sister and me south of the Mason-Dixon line, we were nothing but a bunch of hopeless, hard-edged square pegs in a world of unaccommodating round holes (so much for Southern hospitality). We couldn’t have appeared more alien to this strange territory if we had been dropped right out of a spaceship. Everything about us was not only different but strangely, shorter: our names—not one of us had a double-hyphenated first name, our haircuts—women in the South chose to ignore the shorter, shaggier styles of the 60s, the number of syllables in our words, and most importantly our bloodline. We drank Coke, not soda, our mother’s sister wasn’t insulted when we called her “ant,” and when we visited the john, he generally had a last name too. We eventually came to realize that no matter how long we lived in the South, we would always be outsiders to these bred-in-the-bone Southerners.
The lucky thing for us was that Southerners, although humble as all get out about most everything else, are pretty darn self-righteous about being Southerners. We had all kinds of friends and neighbors willing to show us how being them was so much nicer than being us. And we, being the sneaky Northerners that we were, took notes all the while. If we couldn’t just become Southerners, we could, by golly, be taught.
We had a lot of unknowing teachers in those early years, from the lady at Roses five and dime who steered us to the dotted Swiss curtains for our bedroom to my Girl Scout leader who put her hair in curlers every night of her life, including on camping trips. But by far, our best teacher was a great friend of our Mom’s, who was from even deeper down South than where we lived. She didn’t see us as rude interlopers from “up therah,” rather she saw us as potential converts. She made it her mission to soften our edges, turn our “I”s into “ah’s” and teach us to make a mean batch of sausage gravy in the process.
I was very young when this conversion process began so I was literally a sponge for all things Southern. I picked up the ya’lls in the first few months, tossing away my old “you guys” like so much Yankee garbage. And it took me only weeks of tagging along behind our friend June at the grocery store, Miller & Rhoads, even at church to learn that to a Southern lady friendliness, not that other thing, is next to Godliness.
There were so many things to learn and luckily so much time as I was only eight when we started and eighteen when June figured her job was done. I learned to eat tomato sandwiches—big slabs of beefsteak tomato between white bread with lots of mayonnaise, salt and pepper. I learned to say “yes maam and sir” rather than “yeah” which was perfectly ok where I came from. I learned that Robert E. Lee was a name that was always preceded by General and spoken in hushed tones. I learned that my freckles were brown sugar spots and made a girl sweet (June had a whole “mess” of them herself.)
One summer when I was about 10, I’ll never forget spending a week with June’s huge family in the mountains of North Carolina. She was the baby in a family of 10 kids so she had a plenty of nieces and nephews close to my age. This particular week June passed off the task of southernizing me to this group of young Rebels and I not only learned how to pick worms off tobacco leaves and sleep in a featherbed, but I also learned how it felt to be kissed behind a tree by a southern boy.
His name was Scottie and he was my first love, southern or otherwise, and while he was teaching me how to kiss, he taught me the merits of romantic, dewey-eyed southern boys. It might not have been the lesson June intended but as far as I’m concerned, it represented an integral piece of my southern education! To this day, my knees still buckle when I hear a slow, deep, honeyed voice turn my name into four mellifluous syllables.
During my 40+ years of living in the South, I’m proud to say I’ve been a pretty good spy in the camps of the South and I’ve learned a lot of secrets. In fact, I’ve become so southernized that my Yankee family barely claims me anymore.
But even though I know all the words to “Dixie” and eat my grits plain, thank you, I know I’m still not a Southerner. Occasionally though, I’ll be talkin’ to some recently transplanted Northerner and they’ll mistake my dropped “g” for the real thing. I just give them one of my most hospitable smiles and think…”you’re not stealing any secrets off me!”
So when my mother moved my sister and me south of the Mason-Dixon line, we were nothing but a bunch of hopeless, hard-edged square pegs in a world of unaccommodating round holes (so much for Southern hospitality). We couldn’t have appeared more alien to this strange territory if we had been dropped right out of a spaceship. Everything about us was not only different but strangely, shorter: our names—not one of us had a double-hyphenated first name, our haircuts—women in the South chose to ignore the shorter, shaggier styles of the 60s, the number of syllables in our words, and most importantly our bloodline. We drank Coke, not soda, our mother’s sister wasn’t insulted when we called her “ant,” and when we visited the john, he generally had a last name too. We eventually came to realize that no matter how long we lived in the South, we would always be outsiders to these bred-in-the-bone Southerners.
The lucky thing for us was that Southerners, although humble as all get out about most everything else, are pretty darn self-righteous about being Southerners. We had all kinds of friends and neighbors willing to show us how being them was so much nicer than being us. And we, being the sneaky Northerners that we were, took notes all the while. If we couldn’t just become Southerners, we could, by golly, be taught.
We had a lot of unknowing teachers in those early years, from the lady at Roses five and dime who steered us to the dotted Swiss curtains for our bedroom to my Girl Scout leader who put her hair in curlers every night of her life, including on camping trips. But by far, our best teacher was a great friend of our Mom’s, who was from even deeper down South than where we lived. She didn’t see us as rude interlopers from “up therah,” rather she saw us as potential converts. She made it her mission to soften our edges, turn our “I”s into “ah’s” and teach us to make a mean batch of sausage gravy in the process.
I was very young when this conversion process began so I was literally a sponge for all things Southern. I picked up the ya’lls in the first few months, tossing away my old “you guys” like so much Yankee garbage. And it took me only weeks of tagging along behind our friend June at the grocery store, Miller & Rhoads, even at church to learn that to a Southern lady friendliness, not that other thing, is next to Godliness.
There were so many things to learn and luckily so much time as I was only eight when we started and eighteen when June figured her job was done. I learned to eat tomato sandwiches—big slabs of beefsteak tomato between white bread with lots of mayonnaise, salt and pepper. I learned to say “yes maam and sir” rather than “yeah” which was perfectly ok where I came from. I learned that Robert E. Lee was a name that was always preceded by General and spoken in hushed tones. I learned that my freckles were brown sugar spots and made a girl sweet (June had a whole “mess” of them herself.)
One summer when I was about 10, I’ll never forget spending a week with June’s huge family in the mountains of North Carolina. She was the baby in a family of 10 kids so she had a plenty of nieces and nephews close to my age. This particular week June passed off the task of southernizing me to this group of young Rebels and I not only learned how to pick worms off tobacco leaves and sleep in a featherbed, but I also learned how it felt to be kissed behind a tree by a southern boy.
His name was Scottie and he was my first love, southern or otherwise, and while he was teaching me how to kiss, he taught me the merits of romantic, dewey-eyed southern boys. It might not have been the lesson June intended but as far as I’m concerned, it represented an integral piece of my southern education! To this day, my knees still buckle when I hear a slow, deep, honeyed voice turn my name into four mellifluous syllables.
During my 40+ years of living in the South, I’m proud to say I’ve been a pretty good spy in the camps of the South and I’ve learned a lot of secrets. In fact, I’ve become so southernized that my Yankee family barely claims me anymore.
But even though I know all the words to “Dixie” and eat my grits plain, thank you, I know I’m still not a Southerner. Occasionally though, I’ll be talkin’ to some recently transplanted Northerner and they’ll mistake my dropped “g” for the real thing. I just give them one of my most hospitable smiles and think…”you’re not stealing any secrets off me!”
If the South rises again...we better learn to use our horns!
After 18 years living in the capitol of the Confederacy, I understand most things. I understand Richmonders enduring reverence for their Civil War heroes and their need to see effigies of these heroes every day. I understand using last names as first names, and first names that are hyphenated and as long as my entire name. I even understand how to pronounce Powhite.
But I’ll never understand – even if I live here until my dying day – why Richmonders refuse to honk their horns. I’ve seen people patiently sit through a whole light cycle because the first person in line was rifling through her purse. I’ve seen car after car turn left well after their light has turned red, and the person going straight wait patiently for someone to obey a traffic law. I’ve even seen people walk out in front of oncoming cars and drivers politely screech to a halt to allow those audacious pedestrians safe passage.
I understand southern gentility. Really I do. But even politeness has its time and place. There’s no one who can convince me that letting someone sit unaware at a green light is the polite thing to do. If I’m that “asleep at the wheel” chump, I consider it a great favor for someone to honk me back to consciousness and allow you , and me, to get through the light before it turns red again. Honest!
Even when you use your horn for its real intent – safety – in this city, you are considered a cheeky character. Recently, I was waiting to turn out of my neighborhood and the person ahead of me continued to let off the brake, each time rolling a little closer toward my car. I finally (in warning only) ever-so-gingerly tapped my horn. She threw her hands in the air in the old “what do you want me to do?” gesture. I guess if I had any manners at all I would’ve just let her hit me!
If you can’t honk your horn to encourage action or thwart accident in this city of civility, it’s certainly not acceptable to use your horn to greet someone or even to draw a driver’s attention to something amiss. Richmonders will assume you’re crazy, flirting with them or about to commit a drive-by shooting, and they’ll do whatever it takes to escape that mortifying honking.
Sometimes I think that Richmonders equate tapping the horn with improprieties like speaking too loudly in a restaurant, arguing in public, or voicing any sort of dissatisfaction within earshot of others. It means calling attention to ourselves and Southerners are not at all comfortable with making a spectacle of any sort.
So why, I’m left to wonder, do cars in Richmond even come equipped with these devices of disrespect and deviance? Isn’t it like selling a vegetarian a set of cutlery with steak knives or a confirmed bachelor a cable package with Lifetime? Not only is it a waste of good money but couldn’t it also result in a random act of aberrant behavior?
I’m convinced that one day some errant Richmond driver is going to feel particularly saucy and let slip an insolent blast of their horn. And before we know it, this once-serene little burg will be a cacophony of toots, beeps and blasts. It may be just the ticket to relieve hundreds of years of Southern repression…or at the very least, I might get through a light on the first cycle now and again.
But I’ll never understand – even if I live here until my dying day – why Richmonders refuse to honk their horns. I’ve seen people patiently sit through a whole light cycle because the first person in line was rifling through her purse. I’ve seen car after car turn left well after their light has turned red, and the person going straight wait patiently for someone to obey a traffic law. I’ve even seen people walk out in front of oncoming cars and drivers politely screech to a halt to allow those audacious pedestrians safe passage.
I understand southern gentility. Really I do. But even politeness has its time and place. There’s no one who can convince me that letting someone sit unaware at a green light is the polite thing to do. If I’m that “asleep at the wheel” chump, I consider it a great favor for someone to honk me back to consciousness and allow you , and me, to get through the light before it turns red again. Honest!
Even when you use your horn for its real intent – safety – in this city, you are considered a cheeky character. Recently, I was waiting to turn out of my neighborhood and the person ahead of me continued to let off the brake, each time rolling a little closer toward my car. I finally (in warning only) ever-so-gingerly tapped my horn. She threw her hands in the air in the old “what do you want me to do?” gesture. I guess if I had any manners at all I would’ve just let her hit me!
If you can’t honk your horn to encourage action or thwart accident in this city of civility, it’s certainly not acceptable to use your horn to greet someone or even to draw a driver’s attention to something amiss. Richmonders will assume you’re crazy, flirting with them or about to commit a drive-by shooting, and they’ll do whatever it takes to escape that mortifying honking.
Sometimes I think that Richmonders equate tapping the horn with improprieties like speaking too loudly in a restaurant, arguing in public, or voicing any sort of dissatisfaction within earshot of others. It means calling attention to ourselves and Southerners are not at all comfortable with making a spectacle of any sort.
So why, I’m left to wonder, do cars in Richmond even come equipped with these devices of disrespect and deviance? Isn’t it like selling a vegetarian a set of cutlery with steak knives or a confirmed bachelor a cable package with Lifetime? Not only is it a waste of good money but couldn’t it also result in a random act of aberrant behavior?
I’m convinced that one day some errant Richmond driver is going to feel particularly saucy and let slip an insolent blast of their horn. And before we know it, this once-serene little burg will be a cacophony of toots, beeps and blasts. It may be just the ticket to relieve hundreds of years of Southern repression…or at the very least, I might get through a light on the first cycle now and again.
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