As I Stand Speaking...

Hey Y'all, let's chat...~smile~

This may be a TMI moment, but here goes. A bunch of people live in my brain. This wouldn't be so bad it they weren't all storytellers, and if they weren't all bent on telling their stories at the same exact time. We get along fairly well in private but this group thing can be especially trying when one is speaking before live audiences. Every story I begin reminds the individuals that comprise this interesting fellowship of another story-- and what's worse-- everyone thinks she should go next as her story is better, more appropriate, more interesting. As I stand speaking the audience sees one person. They do not see the full out mud slinging cat fight going on inside my head. This is good. It could be the sole reason I haven't been put away. That, and the fact that I am Southern, which explains a lot to a lot of people, at least the type that generally book me. This, too, is good. Note to self: Do not travel outside the South without your papers, or your people, or both.

The south is full of storytellers. Some have to write them down. What happens that causes the first to become the second? It's a question I like to ask other authors on my live show, All Things Southern LIVE at http://www.fox927.com/shows.php?id=12 that was born out of my website, http://www.allthingssouthern.com. I never tire of hearing their answers. (Did you see those shameless plugs? It's a gift.)

So, how would I answer my own question? You mean after I wrestled "the group". I'd begin with one of my all time favorite quotes on writing: "Everyone says they'd like to write a book. What they mean is that they would like to have written a book." Big. Difference. I think the folks who cross the line, the storytellers who write 'em down are the ones who have to, flat out have to. Most little kids write play words before they can read, pretend words, squibbles. Some never stop.

By now, if you're still with me, you may have scooted over to my website. By now, you may think you know the type of stories I tell. I understand that you would feel that way, but you don't. You can't know the words spilled all over my house. If you hold my latest book in your hand you see the words Penguin (God love 'em) decided were worthy of the light of day. There are so many others that, and this is probably good, will never be seen. Novels, short stories, and poems that jump indiscriminately from one genre to another. And since I don't think the poetress is ever going to wrestle the others down long enough to perfect her craft, I think I will now give her a moment in the sun.

What follows are thoughts of my paternal grandmother who saw in me a famous writer. She gave me a typewritter when I was eleven. My siblings thought it the strangest gift. I was elated. I used it to write my first novel,"Martha and her Horse".

Grandma was a Kentucky woman who came to the Delta in a horse drawn carriage and kept house in a tent until she and her husband could afford a home. She didn't have an education, but she was enamored with words. Finding a grandchild who loved to write them made her glow with pride. I wish every child knew the feeling of having some one think his or her words are worthy. I post these now because Grandma never saw my words in print. Or did she.

“My Father’s Mother”

climbing four cracked steps

as the bus plods off

first grade reader in hand

I knew I’d find you

in your green chair

near the window

voices whisper

she does nothing

but watch the flickering lights

of make believe lives

I don’t care

I liked you there, in your chair

worried faces

her feet, too heavy

ankles swelling at awkward angles

I didn’t mind you being heavy

I needed you solid

like a rock

let ‘em frown

did they come to the delta

keep house in a tent

birth a baby alone

while the youngest tugs,

his dress held beneath the bed’s leg

bending and picking scratchy white cotton

with ten of your own

baby waiting in the shade

see, you talked

they listened

but I heard

Anxious hearts

they say he died at lunch

with crops waiting in the field

broke her heart in two

she threw in the towel

sat down for good

house was empty

noses wiped

bottoms cleaned

meals cooked

Grandma, did you quit

or were you through

later they wiped you with the others

old and tired

and wondered why you hung on

I wondered how you’d feel

who your spirit would be

when your body wasn’t tired

from babies

and cooking

and scrubbing

I missed you then

I miss you now

I wish I could sit in your chair

Hugs,
Shellie

Is It Me -- or Are Californians Creepy?

By Annabelle Robertson

I have been out of the South for nigh on three years now, which, granted, is enough to make anyone lose perspective. But still, I'm starting to get worried. When you live in California, it can become increasingly tempting to grow sympathetic toward the natives – try though you might to resist.

Admiration starts to creep in around their Hawaiian-flowered edges, after a year or so. Two years in, and you're shaking your head -- instead of narrowing your eyes -- when they forget to use turn signals (“Turn signal? What turn signal?”). Three years in and you actually crave carrot juice. Then, before you know it, you discover that you actually enjoy hanging out with these people.

Geographical Stockholm Syndrome, I call it.

But never fear, good Southern people, because this feeling will not last. Just when you think it’s safe to go back into the Pacific (with your big toe only, because them thar waters are cold), you will be abruptly reminded that you are not in Texas any longer.

Why? Because Californians, I am convinced, are simply waiting for the opportunity to horrify the rest of us.

I am not sure whether they do this intentionally -- or whether it is merely a byproduct of their longstanding obsession with all things marijuana (which, if the turn signal situation is any indicator, puts the Lohan to shame). But if there's one thing I have learned, it’s that Californians possess the innate ability to transcend all sense of decency and decorum.

And no, I am not talking about what New Orleaneans do on an average day. I’m talking about shock and horror. I’m talking outrage. I’m talking sex.

A few weeks ago, my husband took his annual all-expense-paid vacation to Iraq, courtesy of the United States Air Force. Having learned the hard way that infinite goodbyes at airports lead to hysterical small children, we bid adieu on the front lawn. The girls were still hysterical, of course. Only this time, instead of their hysteria lasting several days, it began to abate after an hour. Or five.

Because we life off base, this tender scene became the afternoon entertainment for everyone who happened to be watering their lawns that Sunday. Meaning, all neighbors within eyesight. Including, a particular one whom I believed to be a really nice guy.

My bad.

My husband hadn’t been gone 24 hours when this guy came a’callin’, on the pretense of checking to see if we were okay. Thanks, I said, we’re hanging in there. Followed by all the things I usually say to make people feel better about the fact that my kids don’t have a daddy for the next six months and could get his legs blown off at any moment. Everyday chit chat, you know.

But before I can launch into my spiel, the neighbor asks me out. On a date. As in, me and him, strumming his six string.

Hellooooo? I sputter, thinking that I have surely misunderstood. Surely. You mean, a glass of wine, right? And why don't we invite a few neighbors to join us, while we're at it? Ahem.

Oh, no, he says. He wants to “comfort me in my husband’s absence.” Wink, wink.

Comfort me?

Comfort me???

Comfort me????????????

Honey, the only thing that’s going to comfort me right now is a one-way ticket back to the South, where men still have manners. And no, I don't mean opening car doors -- or even regular doors, for that matter -- because, with a few rare exceptions, we all know that’s been gone with the wind for way too long. Sad but true. I’m talking about basic old-fashioned courtesy. You know, the kind of thing mothers drill into their sons around the dinner table on Saturday nights.

As in, don't offer unsolicited sexual favors to wives of soldiers. Soldiers who are in Iraq or Afghanistan. Fighting a war. And who also happen to be ministers.

For example.

Oh, Southern habits die so hard, though. And I tell you, this is not always a good thing. Caught by surprise – and to my immense belated regret – I did not fire off a caustic reply. Instead, I feigned ignorance. Then I smiled and shooed the man back to his house (and his own wife and kids, bless their hearts).

He called me several times the next day, then again a few days later.

I ask you, is this normal – or is this California?

I don’t have the answer, and you probably don’t either. All I have is the retort that I sure wish I’d given, and which I am fully prepared to use, make no bones about it, next time that hound dog comes sniffing around my front porch.

“Bubba,” I’ll say, holding my head high and looking my California neighbor straight in the eye, “I am a Southern Girl. I have dignity. I have STANDARDS. Which means you won't catch me dating a man who wears socks with flip-flops.”

Annabelle Robertson is the author of The Southern Girl’s Guide to Surviving the Newlywed Years: How to Stay Sane Once You’ve Caught Your Man. It’s not really for newlyweds, though. In fact, you need to be married a really long time to get it.