Deep Thoughts from the Deep South

As I am writing this post, I am consciously not using my time wisely.  I am supposed to be studying my Young Women lesson for tomorrow, pondering and searching for the best way to discuss priesthood power with them; determining if a brief video or a short excerpt from a recent conference talk will help to enlighten, expand and encourage impressionable young minds. But right now, I choose not to. Instead, I choose to write about things that have left an impression on my mind this week.

We have spent the last week in the Deep South.  Unfortunately, it was not a vacation.  Instead, we, along with Brian’s siblings (and Aunt), spent the week sifting and sorting, purging and pricing, and getting their late mother’s things ready for a garage and real estate sale.  It is not an activity for the faint of heart.  Long days and hard work proved to be a catalyst for falling into bed already half asleep. The Southern sun was unforgiving as it shone through the windows and forced us to rise early day after day in an effort to make the most of the week.  And make the most, we did.

Staying with my parents in west Alabama, and traveling back and forth to east Mississippi, we had a lot of time to talk about a lot of things.  Over the days, memories were stirred up every bit as much as the dust. The Deep South. The Bible Belt. Those states below the Mason Dixon Line.  It has earned a very bad reputation; deservedly, over the years.  But I wish people could see through the checkered past, and get a real, firsthand opportunity to see what makes the South so special.  If they could only see what I see.  But perhaps, I am looking through rose-colored milk glass.  Or depression glass.  Or any other glass that is so popular for collectors down here…..  

They say football is the religion of the South.  I cannot disagree.  You can’t drive a half mile without seeing someone’s allegiance proudly waving in the wind or forever enshrined in some random piece of yard art.

Not to be irreverent or sacrilegious, but I think that football in the South is a literal Savior for some.  When things don’t seem to be going right, all you have to do is wait for a football Saturday to cast those weary thoughts aside, fire up the grill and spend the next 4-6 hours cheering and screaming for the team of your choice. And maybe good naturedly ribbing the unfortunate schmuck who chose to root against you.  (Or, maybe, setting your phone to silent should you be cast in said role, lol).  It is the Passion of the Pigskin and the entire South worships at the altar of the SEC every year from late August into early January. 

And don’t you worry. When the last down of football season has been played, there is always NASCAR and the spring games and the “do you remember that play where…” to tide you over until the Fall.  Yes, TIDE.  As in, Roll Tide, ya’ll!  See you in September!

Kudzu.  Yes, kudzu.  

The tenacious vine that will.not.stop and consumes every tree, bush, man, woman, child or small animal in its path (at least that’s what the older ones will tell you).  It’s not pretty, but it has always been fascinating to me.  As they say, “Give it an inch, it’ll go ~ or grow, I suppose ~ a mile.”.  I never knew until recently that kudzu blooms.  I wanted so badly to see an actual plant in bloom (I believe it is bloom time right now), but unfortunately, the nature of the visit left little time for perusing country roads looking for the elusive kudzu blossom. Kudzu is invasive. As so many things in life, when it was it was first introduced into the country, its intentions were pure.  It was planted largely to stem erosion and repair land damaged by farmers and railroad men.  However, as with so many things in life, it was neglected and grew unchecked and what was billed and marketed as a plant with a promise became, in the end, the vine with a vengeance.  

Ah, kudzu.  No matter what it may truly be, I view it more as the metaphorical vine.  As ubiquitous to the South as sweet tea, it is at once resourceful and stubborn, always climbing to new heights while being derided and degraded by those who choose to not research it’s history or its checkered past.  The blooms are capable of producing something as sweet as jelly (yes, I’ve tasted kudzu jelly and it was a treat for the taste buds) but the vine itself is the bane of many a road crew who has had to work to eradicate it.  The South that I know and love is every bit as sweet as kudzu jelly.  But that isn’t to say that there are real problems that do need to be addressed and eradicated.  The Bible tells us Jesus withered the fig tree when there was no good fruit found on it. Well, the South and kudzu are both still living, so I suppose there is hope for them yet.   

“The Macaroni dish”. In the South, food is revered almost almost as much as football.  It is the running joke that nothing here is worth pursuing if you can’t clean it, cook it or marry it.  We do not call serving dishes by their born names here. For instance, you would never say, “Has anyone seen my 10” Lodge cast iron skillet?”  No, you’re more likely to hear “Has anyone seen my cornbread skillet?”  And, yes, folks.  Cornbread is cooked in a skillet NOT a muffin tin.

I was reminded of this as Brian’s Aunt Hazel kept searching his mom’s house this past week for her mother’s “macaroni dish.”  To her, it wasn’t just an extra large blue and white Corningware dish that she could use in her kitchen.  It was the dish that her mother cooked macaroni and cheese in every Sunday.  More importantly, it was a memory.  A memory likely as tangible as the actual dish itself. I was lucky enough to have Brian’s grandmother’s macaroni and cheese.  Every southerner’s family has their own heirloom version of mac and cheese.  Hers was a simple recipe.  Elbow noodles, milk, butter, cheese.  LOVE.  Every time that Brian’s mom came to visit, she always made “Mawmaw’s Mac and Cheese” for the grandkids, which they happily gobbled up.  Clearly it is a dish that has touched and nourished generations.  Evelyn wrote the recipe down for me.  I know it will continue to delight generations to come.

Southerners get a bad wrap for being unhealthy and overweight, and I suppose the statistics really don’t lie.  But food here is more comfort for the soul than it ever is for the body.  The minute someone passes away, parades of casseroles and buckets of fried chicken can line countertops for miles.  When someone is getting married, they are sent off to married life right with squares of pimiento cheese sandwiches and recipes for pecan pie.  When a baby is born, the new parents are not only showered with onesies that say “I love my craw Dad”, but they will likely inherit a freezer full of meals that may last straight through to the next baby.  Or the divorce.  Whichever may come first, lol.

Whether you like your food fried, deep fried, country fried or chicken fried, you will always find what you’re craving when you visit below the Mason Dixon Line.   Many come for the food, but more leave filled up with so much more.  Hospitality, graciousness, charm, and simple, humble  goodness.  And maybe a bag of boiled peanuts for the road.

I love the South. I was born in the Heart of Dixie, and it will forever be in the heart of me.  I acknowledge the many problems that exist there, but I believe in the genuine goodness of the people there….black and white, young and old, genteel folk and humble poor.  These people make up the South of my dreams. The one that people don’t get to see when they choose to only tune in to the evening news. It is, at times, very much that, but it is so much more.  Yes, my home’s in Alabama.  No matter where I lay my head.  My home’s in Alabama.  Southern born and southern bred.  Amen and Roll Tide.