My Hometown USA

  The Porch Is America's Last Peace Treaty The Art of Family Gathering Family gatherings used to be as predictable as Sunday afternoon naps. You knew who'd be there, who'd tell the same stories, who'd burn the biscuits, and who'd insist they weren't hungry before fixing a plate fit for a lumberjack. My kids, hubby and I moved away from my family after Hurricane Katrina to the northern parts of Alabama where mountains pop out of the earth, a far cry from the flat piney woods of South Mississippi. For most of my life we had family gatherings, but as the elder folks began to pass, less and less. The Sunday dinners became a distant memory. Now distance separated me from most gatherings. But a few of my family folks will make the journey from time to time, so we gather once again. Every now and then, though, the stars align. Mom flies up the interstate—driving like she's trying to qualify for NASCAR—with precious family cargo. My brother and his crew trav...

  FAKE INTELLIGENCE I haven’t always been a dumb blonde. I was born a smart brunette. I got really good grades growing up. I could program a VCR to record a television series months ahead. But it seems all my life I have been faking my intelligence. They say Artificial Intelligence is changing the world. Some say, like the Terminator, it will eventually become so smart that it realizes we humans are just a useless resource. Then it will eliminate us. AI can write college papers, diagnosis diseases and create music so believable that recently a non-human made the top Christian album list. My so-called intelligence spent twenty minutes looking for my readers before checking the top of my head. AI can translate twelve languages. I still say “thingamajig” because I can’t remember the word “spatula.” AI remembers everything I have told it. I walk into a room six times before remembering why I went there. AI can summarize a 400-page book in a moment while I re...

The Tupperware Cemetery There is a place in every Southern kitchen where good intentions go to die. It's called the Tupperware cabinet. Open that door too quickly and you'll find yourself in a plastic avalanche that could qualify as a natural disaster. I don't know who first decided that every leftover green bean deserved its own container, but somewhere along the way we all became curators of colorful plastic archaeology. I have lids. Lots of lids. They just don't belong to anything. But I still have them…you know, just in case a get a naked bowl that needs a top. Speaking of those containers, they apparently have entered the witness protection program because their matching lids disappeared sometime during the Bush administration. (the old one) Every few months I become convinced that this is the day I'm finally going to organize them. I stack. I sort. I match. Then I discover eighteen identical round containers with nineteen square lids...

I'm Gonna Pop Some Tags! Thrift store shopping is all the rage! Have you noticed there is a thrift store popping up on every corner? Malls are dying. Thrift shopping is thriving. It’s treasure hunting. It’s archaeology with air conditioning. Every rack is a mystery. Every aisle is an adventure. Somewhere between the outdated Christmas sweaters and somebody’s abandoned exercise equipment sits the possibility of finding a designer blouse for four dollars.  Every rack holds possibilities. Every aisle whispers, “You don’t need this, but look how cute it is.” You walk in looking for a sweater and somehow leave with a picture frame, a cookbook, two blouses, a decorative rooster, and absolutely no sweater. It’s a gift. Or a disorder. The jury is still out. Before thrift shopping became cool, my oldest son was already a fan. He loved hunting for the most eclectic T-shirts imaginable. The stranger the message, the better. You’d be amazed at what people are willing to put on a white cotton...

  Peanuts, Popcorn and a Squirrel An Ode to Family Dinners (Revised) I am not delusional about being the model parent. I am realistic. Yet, as I surveyed our family dining table one Sunday night years ago, even I was amazed by what I saw. We had attended church, made a quick run to the grocery store, and by the time we walked through the front door, I had three pairs of hungry eyes staring at me. I did not want to cook.  Short-order cuisine was on the menu. Soup, canned chili, sandwiches, maybe even chicken fajitas if I got ambitious. Then Cade reminded his father his first squirrel was sitting in the refrigerator, waiting to be cooked. As a hunter who loves fresh deer meat, he wasn't nearly as excited about fresh Alabama squirrel, but he rolled the tiny pieces in flour and fried up the trophy. I turned to the other twin and asked what he wanted for dinner. Surely the answer would be waffles. Nope. Boiled peanuts. From a can. Since I had completely lost control of the menu, I ...

Monsters in my Closet! There were always monsters around when I was young. What was lurking under the bed. What dark things were in my closet. And something was always waiting outside in th e dark. Cinematic beasts drove my young fears into imaginary trauma as a young 70s kid. My Mom loved Dracula vampire movies. She watched every vampire film she could find, including the gothic soap opera Dark Shadows . Unfortunately for me, my mother was also a sleepwalker. Nothing prepares a child for waking up in the middle of the night to find a pale woman with long dark hair drifting through the room in a flowing black nightgown. She would stare straight ahead as if under a spell, open drawers, move things around for no apparent reason, then slowly glide back out of the room. That was normal at our house. We always had to make sure the front door was locked. Not to keep monsters out. To keep Mama in. We let her escape a few times. In my glorious youth, Creature from the B...