Southern Thing Column

Here’s why you never trifle with a Southern belle

If you missed last week’s column on It’s a Southern Thing (, you can read it by clicking here. Below are the first paragraphs.

My Aunt Beverly sashayed when she walked. She told me a few years ago, when I teased her about her provocative flounce, that it was the result of an old back injury. She wasn’t fooling anyone. She sashayed because it was her body’s natural rhythm: swish to the left, boom. Swish to the right, boom. Back to the left, boom. Again … boom … and again…boom … dah dah boom, dah dah boom, boom, boom.

Her walk made the local boys sweat … well until those “boys” were octogenarians. Anything she carried in her back pocket would have been as happily dizzy as a kid on a carnival ride. She sashayed like a Southern belle born in a time of dungarees and pedal pushers rather than restrictive skirts and social mores; she sashayed like a beautiful woman who was feeling sassy. She was beautiful, and she was sassy more often than not.

When Beverly Caldwell Presley died last month at the age of 75, a light went out in Georgia. Click here to read the entire column.

My Aunt Bev.

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