Southernness...

I used to joke that the Lord could send me anywhere in the world and I'd be happy, as long as anywhere didn't include the North. I've always loved being from the South.

Southern. It's not just a regional adjective; it's a family name. My mom's maiden name is Southern. As in railroad, only not. If we were Southern Railroad people, I'm betting there'd be money in the family. In our family there isn't any money; we do have an abundance of antique beds, though. I don't know why.

I've decided that even if I didn't get my Granny's gift for tatting, I did get her affinity for painting furniture. Wood, meet Paint. Paint, meet Wood. Sandpaper? We don't need no stinkin' sandpaper. I have an impatient artisan heritage.

Aside from our throw-away-nothing-because-we-might-be-able-to-use-it-for-something-else family philosophy that lies somewhere between the mountain of collectability and the island of hoarders, I also inherited a nice set of family stories. One of my favorites will get me in trouble with PETA. It involves tick removal from a cat, kerosene, flames and a house fire. That actually wasn't the Southern side of the family. Oh, I mean it IS the southern side, just not the Southern side. I can't remember which cousin was trying to do the cat a service, but he inadvertently caused kitty's demise and burned the house down. I don't think he could do it today, what with the fact that folks usually build solid foundation walls instead of leaving the crawl space open.

There's the story of Granny and the watermelon patch and another one about the time she got bit by a copperhead... or was it a moccasin...? At any rate, she had a scar on the top of her foot where her daddy cut an x and sucked out the poison. In a recent First Aid re-certification course, I learned you're not supposed to do that to a snake bite. Oh well. She was fine, and it made a good story to keep kids from running barefoot through fields or even through a grassy yard in summer twilight.