The Old South

I grew up in the Old South around many Aunt Sally types. Every mother felt responsible for every child. It didn't matter if you were the kid down the street or even a preacher's kid like I was. If you were doing something wrong an Aunt Sally type would yell, "Debbie Crocker, you stop that right now or I'll tan your hide and haul you to your momma and show her what I've done!"

Those ladies earned my trust. With every demand I saw love in their eyes. I knew they were concerned and if I had a problem I could rush to them for help. Earned trust allowed them to say things to me that others wouldn't dare. They could tell me off and demand instant obedience. Because their hugs and concern were genuine, all I felt was love - and yes, I obeyed!

The Southern women I knew were wonderful cooks, passionate about people, extremely outspoken, demanded obedience to rules, propriety and God's laws - and the best huggers in the world. A child can get lost in those hugs. My love for them was so strong that I would rather die than endure their disappointment. I loved them.

My mother was one of those precious ladies.

I remember waking to the smell of frying bacon and oven browned biscuits. Mother never called me to breakfast. She would quietly walk into my room; wipe my face with a warm cloth and singsong "Wake up Debbie. The sunshine is calling you and today is going to be a great day."

While her voice was sweet as honey when she was encouraging, it could be as deep and loud as a roaring train whistle if I needed correction. Maybe the ability to call me from two blocks away was a result of preaching for so many years without the help of a microphone.

Breakfast was not a meal. To a southerner it was an experience that involved all five senses. My eyes bulged with the colors and over abundance of food. The table groaned with mile high biscuits, crisp thick bacon, sausage links, scrambled eggs light and fluffy, hot grits turned yellow by a river of butter, homemade peach jam, half a grapefruit, hot coffee and fresh orange juice.

My nose swelled as each scent passed before me.

My hands wrapped around a hot biscuit as I tore it open and let butter seep into every crevice. Jam joined the butter until it ran over the edge of the biscuit down my third finger and under my shirtsleeve. It seemed to taste better if you had to chase it with your tongue.

My ears perked to attention as each plate was passed around the table with lively conversation.

My mouth savored every bite hoping the goodness I tasted would be remembered forever. And it has been. No joy can compare to the thoughts of waking as the Georgia sun shone past the dew laden pine trees into a home where mom prepared a breakfast extravaganza.

That breakfast stayed with me as I climbed the red dirt hills and found adventures under a mound of pine straw or better yet a Magnolia tree. Large magnolia trees wound their arms close to the ground so children could enter the world of imagination. Crawling past the massive outer leaves revealed a world of bare curving branches that lead skyward. Those outer leaves created the feeling of a tent and with just a little believing that tent could become a five-story building with the branches acting as stairs. I thought my make believe Southern mansion decorated with it's broad magnolia blossoms was as beautiful as any home I'd ever seen.

I spent a lot of time practicing to be just like the Southern women I loved. I would drag all my toy pots, pans and dishes under that huge magnolia so I could make supper for my dolls. Red Georgia clay provided a nice base when mixed with rainwater, grass, honeysuckle and seeds. I would enhance the presentation by adding one of mom's prized flowers to the plate. I was the mud pie queen. I learned a lot about life and creativity under the shade of that huge tree.

In my south, love was deep and strong and could last a lifetime. Maturity wasn't desirable - it was demanded. God wasn't a question mark - he was an exclamation point. And family....well family defined who you were as much as what you looked like. Tough times were shared with friends and neighbors who lightened the load. They never asked what they could do, they just did it. Hope filled that world. We made mistakes - awful mistakes - but we knew that if we worked hard and minded Aunt Sally, life would turn out all right.

Come with me and let's visit Aunt Sally's Kitchen. Set in today's world it might speak to you of how we all should "act like somebody." And even if you view it only as fiction, I know you will love her as much as I do.