It's Summer: Dive In to a Refreshing Pool of Words!

It's long been confirmed that I'm a little different. This time of year, that becomes readily apparent when everyone else is carting around the Beach Read of the Week and I'm buried in War and Peace or some such lofty tome. I chalk it up to having been an English major: there are so many classics, and so little time, that I just couldn't get through them all! So here I am, x number of years later (no need to dwell on that number), still reading classics. And I read them during the summer, when the pace is slower, so that I can sit on my porch with a glass of ice-cold, sweet tea and savor every word. (Oh, don't I wish it were so!) No, the truth is, I read wherever and whenever I can sandwich it in between the routine tasks of being a working writer, wife, and mother; sometimes, there's a glass of tea and a comfy chair involved but, more often, it's a bed and a pillow!

In any case, my first choice this summer is Eudora Welty's entire collection of short stories. I've read many already, of course, but I'm looking forward to reading the whole body of work, chronologically. Eudora Welty has always reminded me of my Aunt Eula, a feisty, fabulous woman who raised five of her seven brothers, made a career out of being a Pink Lady, could as easily have been a movie star as a drill sergeant, and made the speed of light look downright lethargic. Miss Welty's words flow with a staccato urgency whether you read them in your head or aloud; she does not dawdle in her tale-telling and her characters brook no nonsense. Those sharp-tongued domestic mavens, slightly off-kilter curmudgeons, and endearing innocents are people I have known all my life, for better or worse, and I love them before I even know them (one of the South's best qualities: we love you even if we do know you!).

I figure it will take me a couple of weeks to get through the entire collection, maybe three if I get distracted along the way (I have a bad habit of reading several books at the same time). I'll report back and perhaps we can chat about some specific stories.

Meanwhile, what's on your reading list this summer?

At War with My Inner GRITS

Here lately, I am feeling overwhelmed. Given that I have worked 12+ hour days for most of the month of June, I suspect what I'm actually feeling is exhaustion, but that's a whole other issue. Granted, I am my own worst enemy: when asked about heading up a school event, writing a play for the children's sermon, or hosting a dinner party for six, I do know the word "no," I just have a hard time using it. I am, after all a Girl Raised in the South--which means I have a permanent responsibility to my mother and all who came before her to serve God, family, friends, and country with a smile on my face and a spatula in my hand.

The Good Southern Girl Code says nothing about a pen, much less a keyboard, so I have no one but myself to blame for overloading the straw on that proverbial camel's back with my literary aspirations. I mean, it's not like someone's holding a gun to my head, saying, "You'd better get that next book finished, girl!" (Well, my sister's pretty insistent, but that's just because she wants to go on tour with me again.) So I am the only person I can blame for those feelings of guilt, inadequacy, incompetence, and failure that attack when I collapse on my pillow at 1 AM and acknowledge that another day has gone by without me even opening the file for my novel, much less contributing to it.

Meanwhile, as I lay there beating myself up for not writing, I'm also apologizing to my Inner GRITS for the hot breakfast I failed to cook (my children are perfectly happy with cold cereal, but The Code demands homemade waffles with fresh fruit compote--or at least eggs and toast), the get well cards I failed to send my ailing friends and relations, the foot massage I failed to give my husband, the load of towels I failed to fold, the dire condition of my cuticles, and the feeble pat I offered my dog while ignoring the ball he held hopefully in his mouth. By the time I fall asleep, I am mired in a pool of shame deep enough to fry magnolia blossoms.

Such is the burden of being a Girl Raised in the South. We are kind to strangers, but we are brutal on ourselves. My generation of women is trying to hold up standards our great-grandmothers set and that's just dandy--except they did it without full-time jobs and with a maid and a gardener! True, they didn't have air conditioning, microwaves, or clothes dryers--things I consider pretty much essential at this point--but I suspect I would give up my microwave for a COOK in a heartbeat. My poor family has eaten so much pizza this month, they should have enough lycopene in their bodies to guarantee immortality.

You can say "So lower your standards!" to an overworked, overwhelmed Southern girl, but we interpret that as, "Sugar, you are obviously nothing but white trash and are not worthy of having inherited your Great-Aunt Fannie's crystal lemonade set," so those standards must remain firmly in place even if our sanity slips while trying to meet them. In my own household of all men--all of whom were born in the South but only one of whom seems to celebrate that fact--absolutely NO ONE but me understands why it is tacky to put the mayonnaise jar on the table. I do it frequently, Lord forgive me, but the scolding voice of my mother in my head is loud enough to make me cower. Condiment containers on the table is right up there with not wearing a slip or having a dirty car: certain proof that you are just this side of common--and to true GRITS, there is nothing worse than being common.

Oh, the shame of being a Common Goddess instead of a Comma Goddess! That's enough to give me the vapors. So I promise I'll do better this week, Mother! I'll get a manicure, make the boys cookies from scratch, and I'll mail every one of those get-well cards--right after I finish this next chapter.

Life is Good in Greenville

I live in one of the world's great cities. No, it's not New York, San Francisco, Paris, Prague, or London. It's little ol' Greenville, South Carolina--and any day of the week, you'll find visitors wandering our downtown with a smile on their face as they experience Southern hospitality with a side of topnotch urban planning.

Greenville's not big--yet--and most of us hope it doesn't get too much bigger. But after they've been down here on the farm, it's gonna be hard to keep those cityfolk back on the boulevards. How many midsize cities sport a waterfall smack in the center of town--complete with wide, flat rocks for the kiddies (and their parents!) to romp on? How many midsize cities have a baseball stadium, entertainment arena, world class performing arts center, four theatre companies, a public and private fine arts high school, science center, superlative symphony, and two internationally renowned art collections all within a few blocks of each other? And they're all staffed by people who say "Yes, ma'am" and "No, sir" and "Y'all come back soon!" (Okay, I haven't heard Greenville Symphony director Edvard Tchivzhel say those exact words, but Edvard's charm transcends words anyway, so the point's the same.)

I'm not a native, sadly. But Greenville's been my home for twelve years, and that's the longest I've lived anywhere except the little Florida town I grew up in, so I claim it as home. My oldest son (23) thinks it's deadly dull and, compared to L.A., I suppose it is. But my youngest son (16) thinks Greenville rocks. Its labyrinth of downtown nooks and crannies, funky tea and coffee bars, and eclectic array of streetside musicians provide plenty of diversion for teens in search of quirky things to do. Parents love Greenville because it's child-friendly; women love Greenville because it's safe. It's arts-friendly (my favorite event is the immensely enjoyable Open Studios Tour), pet-friendly (we have a dog park!), and climate-friendly (four distinct seasons, and just enough snow to be fun). Employment is high, crime is low, and the beautiful Blue Ridge mountains loom just far enough up the road to provide a perfect backdrop to our northern horizon.

Come on up/down/over and pay us a visit! But be forewarned: you might not want to leave!