Yesterday’s meme got me to thinking….I remember when I first moved up here, I was..well…lonely didn’t quite cut it. My e-mails to family and friends were getting shorter and shorter, convinced they didn’t want to hear my whining. So, I decided right then and there…probably about 4am…to start blogging. Unfortunately, the best laid plans of mice and men…….well, suffice it to say that it all went to he// not too long after that, and the blog was long forgotten in the melee that was my life.
While digging thru some papers and junk that I’m tossing, I found a copy of the blog…and I had to share. It is ironic that I would stumble on this today, after yesterdays “beginning” thoughts.
Hope you enjoy.
Down Home Goodness
There’s something to be said for the good southern home. Although we may be cluttered, we’re always clean. There’s something in that line about cleanliness being next to godliness that we good southern ladies find endearing.
It’s funny to me, no matter how clean and fresh a new house is when you move it, we still have that undying need to scrub it down, and make it shine. Take out the trash as it were. Out with the old, in with the new. Waking up that first morning, plunk in the floor with the kids, the first thing I had to do was start washin stuff down. I mean, banisters, steps, floors. Mind you, I had a freezer, washer and dryer setting plain in the middle of my living room, but that was small potatoes compared to the state of these floors. Never mind that there was a 20 foot truck to be unpacked. And there was but me to do it. Nosirree. No self-respecting southern woman would have a house that looked this filthy. Mind you, the cleaning company had been in the day before.
So after sweeping up, and mopping down, both wet and dry, and dusting off the cobwebs that threatened to attack as we passed through, it still didn’t sing “home” to me. Enter – tchotchke.
Animals mark their territory by leaving their scent. We southern ladies do it with tchotchke ~ knick knacks.
Now, I’m not talking giant black velvet Elvis paintings or statues of poker playing dogs, I mean the good stuff. The stuff that means home. You know, Parlor stuff. Cousin Rita’s picture from Christmas 1979, the one with the dogs in the yard. Ms. Walkers best lace edged doily. The churchkey on the fridge. These are the things of which our life is made, revolves around. Lord only knows how we would survive without the churchkey.
Digging through aforementioned truck to find a small box labeled “hutch”, I immediately unpacked to find a photo of Humphrey Bogart, a candle in a jar,and a flowerpot. Perfect. Onto the shelf they went. Finally, a feeling of home, of belonging. It was as if to say “plunk, yes, there. This home belongs to me” Yeah. Like the 500 pounds of paperwork that we filled out weren’t enough to give us that impression. I needed that flowerpot to make it so.
Not that it didn’t look completely ridiculous sitting there by itself, in the midst of mayhem, but it held it’s own. It was proud, and solid, a piece of a past that was slowly fading. And for that, I would adjust it slightly each time I passed, a solemn memory of a home with a porch in a seemingly far away place. Adding to the collection with Pens, photo’s a doily or two here and there, marking my own territory. Forging my own course. Singing Jeanne C. Riley at the top of my lungs while toting in large unwieldy boxes and pieces of furniture as the children hid, afraid that I had finally gone over the edge. I, on the other hand, felt certain that we had come to an understanding, this northern house and southern girl. This poor PA house had no idea what hit it, thought I.
And not to be outdone, PA hit right back.