I was sitting out at the lake yesterday messing around with my phone and this post came in my reader.
I have read it five times in the last 24 hours. If there were awards in the Tennessee blogosphere for best posts, this would be one of the finalists, I assure you.
Unemployment, fear, the KKK, family responsibilities, grief … Angela writes about each and there is a part of me, as I’m also a Southerner, that wants to drive to Hawkins County, drink too many beers with her, lament a bit possibly with some tears or giddy laughter and let her know that fishing does help as do friends who listen when we need it the most. (Who knew?)
Either way, (and in spite of the burden of proof because you don’t need proof for purposes of repudiating individuals in the South: the truthful-like statement of their mother’s cousin’s hairdresser will do just fine) I am becoming mistrustful and somewhat suspicious of … well, anyone I haven’t seen naked. And some of those I’m not entirely sure about either.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining here. About anything. I’m not. I’m a southerner: we don’t complain. We summarize our tribulations, which I’ve done. Then, we assure ourselves that things could be worse and we keep plodding on. (Of course, I’m a woman. So, I’m expected to plod three times faster and shoulder twice the burden while wearing high heels and deep-frying something beer-battered and all without messing up my hairdo.)
She’d have to do the cooking, as I can’t boil water without the fire department going on alert and my family herding me away from hot grease of any kind, but I can definitely bring the hopps and barley.
Oh, and the only thing that the Angelas and the Newscomas of the world can do right now in these difficult times is smile and keep moving.
It’s the Southern way.
Or we could complain and break the mold.
