Merry Christmas, y’all! Below is the introduction from my newest book called “It’s a Southern Thing: Life’s Different Here, Y’all”, a collection of my humor columns. You can grab one here. If you do, please let me know how you like it with a review on the IAST site or here. You guys are the best!
Some people wonder, what makes the South the South? Is it the borders of a group of states? The food? The mindset? Why do we Southerners think of ourselves as having an “otherness,” a sense of togetherness, that no other region in the nation can match?
We don’t all sound the same, or look the same, or have the same genes. We certainly don’t all think the same. But, in some indefinable way, we are a family. We sense one another in a crowd. It isn’t always easy to define the South, but I can define my South.
I have spent my entire life living in either Georgia or Alabama, with large contingents of family in Tennessee, North Carolina and South Carolina. Entry into my South is through a parting of curtains, but not the heavy velvet or brocade kind. These curtains are the living, lush-green drapes that separated the backyard of my home at 123 Lake Drive in Warner Robins, Georgia, from the mysterious woods beyond. My big brother – let’s call him “Doofus” because it tickles me – and I would head there each weekend or summer morning, often with several friends in tow, prepared to rough it until Mom, rumbling stomachs, or the darkness called us home. On two sides of our yard, the trees formed a natural barrier, demarcating our two worlds, the one where we co-existed with adults and social confines, and the other filled with fantastical places where kids made the rules.
We’d step between those velvety green curtains and enter a world with a soundtrack of whirring cicadas, skittering lizards, rustling leaves, panting dogs, and the sharp yips and uninhibited guffaws made by children who are out of the presence of grown-ups.
The air smelled of rotting logs and molding leaves, of moss and lichens and the sweat of kids too young and unconcerned to have discovered deodorant. Over it all was the scent of lake water. Moose Lake was as big then as the Mighty Mississippi and we forded it with homemade rafts and barge poles made from limbs of nearby trees. On a trip back to the woods when I was an adult, I was disappointed to see the size of our beloved lake, which looked more like a muddy pond. But back then it was endless and magical.
My South is a childhood spent roaming the woods, riding banana-seat Huffy bikes, and playing touch football in the vacant lot. Of cooling off with a drink from the hose pipe.
My South is starting the first day of spring walking barefoot up and down our tar-and-gravel street until the bottoms of our feet grew tough as sandal leather. In the Dog Days, the heat formed tiny tar bubbles between pieces of gravel and we’d pop them with our bare toes, leaving Mom no option but to sigh and scrub at bath time.
My South is a place where people greet one another – even if it’s with a finger wave popped up from a steering wheel – pull over for funeral processions, and don’t mind their business. Where our definition of a fine cuisine is Vienna sausages and saltines, and a science experiment consists of throwing all the leftovers into a bowl with cream-of-something soup and calling it a casserole. It’s a place of porches dotted with step-over dogs and fly swatters hanging on nails. It’s a place where one-upmanship is a professional sport, whether we’re comparing college football teams, the family’s secret recipe for Thanksgiving dressing, or who grew the biggest watermelon.
It’s a place where grandparents are treasured for their wisdom, their stories, and for instilling in each new generation the importance of manners.
My South is a place of inclusion and of kindness. Some might say that’s a naïve view based on history and on modern headlines. But, as I did with those magical woods of my childhood, I believe in this South – this hopeful South – one whose motto should be “Peace, Love & Biscuits.”
I spent many years raising my daughter as a single mom and I’m proud to say she is a true, modern Southern woman. These days, I live in a cozy house in the country with my husband, Sweetums, and an elderly donkey named Pancake for a neighbor. It is definitely my little corner of the South.
I’ve been writing about the South and its “otherness” since I first picked up a pen. In this volume, I’m sharing some columns I wrote for the It’s a Southern Thing brand and its website from the time it debuted in 2017 through 2022. I hope you enjoy them as much as a platter of deviled eggs on a Sunday afternoon.
KellyKazek.com 