It amazes me that even here, in the Heart of Dixie, so many people confuse real banana pudding with something that just isn’t. Real banana pudding is cooked custard layered with Nilla wafers and sliced bananas. The vanilla wafers have to be Nilla, not some knock-off store brand. The only real deviation in the recipe that is allowed is meringue or no meringue. There are definitely two schools of thought on that one. I belong to the no meringue group, but I’m not willing to suggest that the meringuers aren’t authentic. That’s just a slight preference call that is absolutely allowed.

My mom had a thick oval-shaped brown Pyrex bowl with a matching lid that was always used for only one thing. Many cooks might reserve a bowl like that for a hot dish such as baked beans, but this bowl was only used to hold real banana pudding. Now it’s mine, and it maintains the same purpose. When that bowl is in the refrigerator, no one needs to ask what’s in it. It’s the banana pudding bowl.

There are other banana pudding recipes, of course, most of which are shortcuts that busy people like to take. Instead of cooked custard, some of those travesties propose instant vanilla pudding or even worse, powdered gelatin dissolved in ice water and then mixed with sweetened condensed milk. That concoction is from a New York bakery that specializes in cupcakes and banana pudding. I’d suggest just perfecting the cupcake recipe or maybe branching off into cheesecake. But New York should definitely stay away from banana pudding.

Instant just isn’t real food, so instant pudding is a no go for real banana pudding. In fact, in most cases, instant food is no match for anything a cook would want to present family or guests. Not to sound extreme, but I’d say the same for most things canned. It’s true that you can get canned barbecue, but do you really want to? I’m not sure where instant coffee comes from, but I don’t think a coffee bean was involved, and instant mashed potatoes shouldn’t even be considered a food choice.

As a young housewife, my mom joined the women’s canned and instant food movement of the 50’s and 60’s, which opened up a whole new world of time and space for those busy homemakers. We enjoyed frozen pot pies for supper with a dessert of twirly cinnamon rolls that were popped out of a paper tube. The pantry was filled with cans of tuna, Campbells soup, Vienna sausages, and anything with Chef Boyardee on the label. Swanson made the best TV dinners and I absolutely loved Mrs. Smith’s cherry pie with the thick pastry that browned to a delightful crunch but was the devil to cut those little slits through before baking.

It’s hard to believe now, but we even learned to love Lipton’s Instant Tea. Simply stir in a spoonful of that grainy powder, and just like that, you’ve got a glass of tea. No kidding. It sort of had a twang to it, but you got used to it and before long forgot what real tea was supposed to taste like.

The space race gave us Tang, which turned out to be not only a delicious instant orange drink but could really put a shine to a toilet bowl when used as a cleaner. Betty Crocker masterfully boxed up her homemade cake recipe, making her a star player in just about all of our backyard birthday parties. And kudos to whoever molded those crunchy sweet edible cake decorations that were peeled off the cardboard backing before being artfully arranged on the top of a birthday cake, spelling out “Happy Birthday” and providing sturdy support for the flickering candles.

So I grew up on instant and boxed and canned and I’m still here, so I wouldn’t say those choices are deadly, just maybe not the most creative or tasty.

But it didn’t stop there. The quest for instant gratification led to the unfortunate widespread use of the pressure cooker, which is a sealed pressurized pot using superheated water and steam to cook in a fraction of the time required on a stovetop. I’m not always the most mechanically inclined, but even my feeble calculations led me to conclude that a pressure cooker might not be the best idea if you valued your skin and life in general. Something about pressurized superheated water, I think. That conclusion was set in stone when a pressure cooker blew up in my mother-in-law’s kitchen, creating an immediate need for emergency services and a stint in rehab for her.

And instant is apparently not going away anytime soon. You can buy the Instant Pot today and use it in your kitchen tonight. It’s promoted as “the smart, multi-use, programmable pressure cooker designed by Canadians with the objective of being convenient, dependable, and safe.” I’m conflicted about that. I like smart and multi-use, and I’m definitely partial to safe, but programmable and pressure raise all sorts of red flags related to simplicity and safety.

One reviewer raves about the fact that she can make bone broth in her instant pot in a fraction of the time previously required. I can’t remember the last time I thought I might need to make bone broth, but if that thought ever comes to mind, I’m sure I’ll consider an instant pot. Maybe Canadians spend more time with hot bone broth than Americans. It is a lot colder there.

But before being too judgmental or cynical, I searched for a banana pudding recipe using an instant pot. That’s the real test, of course. And sure enough, I found one. But get this. It uses not only sweetened condensed milk, but also instant vanilla pudding mix. No cooking on the stovetop and no egg yolks. You’ll be adding whipped cream to the mix, though, and layering it all in a trifle bowl. The only thing real about the recipe so far is that it does require real Nilla wafers. You can be picky about the vanilla wafer brand but not care about the cooked custard? Small graces.

That recipe comes from a web site for instant pots called Pressure Luck and is billed as Instant Pot Banana Pudding. But in the first paragraph, it’s touted as a recipe that doesn’t even require an instant pot. Wait. It’s an Instant Pot recipe that doesn’t require an instant pot. I’m really confused. Or maybe just too simple.

But then I understand completely. The author reports that the recipe is inspired by the Magnolia Bakery in New York City. Well of course it is. The same bakery that makes banana pudding with ice water.

Like I said, New York really should stick to cheesecake. Let’s be real.

In clearing out a pantry today, I came across a couple of recipe boxes that belonged to my mother and me. As I thumbed through the worn recipe cards and tattered clippings, it occurred to me that family recipe boxes are really much more than the sum of their contents. In those boxes is the treasure of a family story, albeit one in which much time is spent in the kitchen. And the added treasure of recognizing the handwriting of people who may not even be with us anymore—the pleasure of reliving that special dish that they were expert at, or the thing they always prepared at Christmas—makes  the box not just a recipe box; it’s a box of memories, and more than a little inspiration to recreate a few.

I found Aunt Ruth’s handwritten taco soup recipe on a piece of folded up lined paper. If I had been on a mission to find it, I probably would have spent years in the futile attempt. And yet, there it was, just waiting to be savored again.

And at every family gathering, my mother brought her baked beans. To everyone else, they were Aunt Doris’ Baked Beans. In her clearly legible script there it is, on a 3×5 card that in its tattered and stained simplicity gives no clue to the treasure I just unearthed.

Larry’s Fudge Cake, the one my brother was sure to see at every one of his birthday celebrations is lined up in the box, as is the Russian Tea that I think smells just like tears, since it was the tea that my mom sent to me during that absolutely miserable first (and only) graduate semester spent at Middle Tennessee University.

Oh, and Mama Belle’s Lemonade Pie, comprised of just three ingredients, is scrawled on a card with the admonition to just “use your favorite crust.” You’d have to know Mama Belle to fully appreciate the ambiguity of that line. Her kitchen utensils were piled up willy nilly in a large drawer into which she would regularly dive in search of forks or spatulas or whatever else she needed. Organization was not her strong suit but she sure had fun in the kitchen. She could put together a heavenly muscadine pie, swimming in buttery pastry that was coated in sugar granules. And if she knew I was coming, she would throw together the best yeast rolls imaginable. Sadly, she didn’t leave that recipe for me. At least, I don’t think so, but I’m still looking.

Big Mama, my mother’s mom, specialized in vegetables and chocolate pie. Seriously, the only dessert worth mentioning that was ever placed on that little white kitchen cabinet was her chocolate pie. And thankfully I do have that recipe in the box. But how she got those little beads of sweat to dance atop the meringue is a mystery. I figure, though, that it’s got to be a product of the Mississippi humidity and an unairconditioned kitchen, which I’m not willing to replicate. And I don’t know about her recipe for black-eyed peas as I don’t think I’ve eaten more than two forkfuls of those in my life, so THAT one can remain AWOL. She always had a can of tuna on hand for me on vegetable day. She was a good grandmother.

The frozen fruit salad from my fourth-grade recipe book, the green bean casserole that graced every Thanksgiving table, the weekly-supper chicken and rice dish that takes just three ingredients and an hour—the list of recipes and memories in that special box just keeps going, like a conversation with the loved one to whom the recipe was worth recording.

You don’t find too many recipe boxes anymore, and I think that’s a bit sad. I understand it completely; we don’t have time for that, and yet the few minutes it took to record something that was considered special or hopeful is a snapshot of that person just as surely as a photograph in an album. Mama Hennie’s Creamed Corn will always be “her” to me, as will her fried apple pies. And that crockpot of cornbread dressing that my mama ALWAYS had on the countertop at Thanksgiving just calls her name and draws both a smile and a tear.

The kitchen is where just about everything good in life happens. It’s almost always the warmest, whether you’re talking hearts or heat, and most problems can usually be solved around the kitchen table. And it’s just about always where those you love the most gather. Those little index cards, giving line-by-line instructions for a family favorite–whether scrawled in a hurry or meticulously detailed—spell much more than a recipe. They spell family. And there could be worse ways to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon than visiting family, even if it’s just a box.

When this old world starts a getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
I’m gonna climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space

James Taylor is definitely a Yankee. I like him a lot and I love his music, but you have to admit—he’s a Yankee. Why else would you write a song about getting away from it all by going up on the roof? What is that? I saw him in concert this weekend and learned that he’s from Massachusetts. Well, of course he is.

Strangely enough, I love Boston and have visited several times. One thing that struck me is that if you look up, you’re bound to see rooftop gardens, complete with potted plants and trees and patio furniture. And for apartment or office dwellers, that makes sense, as it may be just about the only green space available to them. The point is that everybody, everywhere, could use a place to escape and be alone. It’s just a bit more difficult for that to occur in the middle of a city, I suppose.

On the roof it’s peaceful as can be
And there the world below don’t bother me

Geography aside, you really can’t put a price on those quiet spaces and downtime. I think we just don’t stop there often enough. An older student once recounted to me a science class experiment that required that she spend 10 minutes in the same outdoor spot at the same time each day for several weeks. The goal was just to reflect on that place and watch it evolve with the season. That kind of forced slowdown time might not be for everybody, but it’s intriguing. Just think what you could see and hear in the spring. Bulbs poking up from a softening earth, the first mockingbird trill, geese in formation flying north, tree frogs waking up, the sun shifting to a warmer state with longer days, green onions in a yard that will soon need mowing, and on and on. I dare you to try it.

And you can think in those quiet spaces. And you can settle a few major decisions and talk with God and leave in a better frame of mind. And you can find peace. During my time off last summer, I set up one of those low-slung beach chairs just outside the back of the barn each morning. While the horses finished off their hay and the cats lazed around, I just kicked back and read or snoozed or let one of the 7 cats have a little lap time. There’s nothing like a sleeping cat to teach you how to relax.

And at night the stars, they put on a show for free
And darlin’ you can share it all with me

I’m sure you can see a few stars in the city, but only those that are extra bright or extra close or however that works. But outside the city lights, stars are stunning. I’m not a winter person, but on the occasions when I’m forced to be outside in January at night, wow… That’s when I commit to pulling out an astronomy book and learning how to find constellations. Which, of course, I never do. And when you look up at the night sky, well that’s when you are blown away once again at the enormity of the universe and really how very little we actually understand about it. And all those unanswered questions come rushing in, like “If the universe has no end, then where does it end?” which actually makes absolutely no sense and illustrates my point of how little we understand. And that’s definitely where faith comes in.

But just stopping; stopping on a dark night that is lit only by a bazillion stars and looking up, begs for a quiet time–wherever on this planet you find yourself. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep,” was Robert Frost’s sentiment a few decades ago. We all have miles to go before we sleep, but they’ll be waiting for us when we get there. And we’ll be none the worse for just soaking in those few moments of quiet and beauty. And looking for the Big Dipper, which is a pretty important endeavor.

Right smack dab in the middle of town
I’ve found a paradise just about trouble proof
And if this old world starts a getting you down
Well there’s room enough for two up on my roof

Your roof can be anywhere, but just make sure you find it. And it really won’t hurt to share it with someone else occasionally. We’re not meant to spend too much time alone, but neither are we meant to be so distracted that we forget to spend time just reflecting on anything worth reflecting on. My roof is currently the little beach chair behind the barn, but it rotates to a pier on Shoals Creek, or sometimes it’s the driver’s seat as I travel those miles I have to go before I sleep.

And on the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so…

I’ve never been a huge fan of Valentines Day. It just seems like a holiday that pops up out of nowhere and has no real purpose. If there is a Valentine Scrooge, I suppose I’m it. I admit the color scheme is nice and the heart motifs do brighten up otherwise drab store aisles, but it seems like we just finished up the gift-giving season and now here comes another that demands your full attention and wallet. And if you’re in a relationship, I suppose it could be fun, but I imagine it would be disappointing if you weren’t, and were just reminded of that fact when you didn’t get a card or flowers. Of course, I wouldn’t know that from experience—I’m just supposing. I think it would be what Charlie Brown must feel when he hurries to the mailbox, only to find it empty, with Lucy standing by to taunt him.

Admittedly, it was a favorite day in elementary school, when we got to decorate the brown paper lunch bag that was then taped to the end of the desk so classmates could drop cards in. Your name had to go at the top of the bag, as if classmates wouldn’t know who you were after spending five months in the same classroom. And because there were two “Lynns”, we even had to differentiate there. Lynn Billings was Lynn B and I was Lynn C. Sort of like Thing One and Thing Two.

We were under strict orders not to forget anyone, so the night before was spent in excruciating labor at the kitchen table trying to select just the right valentine to let that special someone know in code that THIS was a very special valentine meant especially for him. Kris Rayburn usually got that one, while Mark Brown had to make do with the plain, noncommittal, Be My Valentine card, which everybody knew meant absolutely nothing. That card was just checking off the to-do list. And it was a good thing that I never committed to Mark Brown, as shortly thereafter he snatched the class goldfish out of the bowl and bit it in two. That was Mark’s last day at Kilby Elementary. Kris went on to become a plastic surgeon in Palm Beach. Looking back, I think I should have spent more time on his cards.

And it was a happy day when I finally figured out that if you fold the pink construction paper in half and then draw the heart hump on one half and cut it out, you could open it up to a perfectly proportioned heart. Write “I Love You” in the middle, glue lace around the edge and voila, you have the perfect valentine for your mom and dad. Speaking of which, dads should never forget daughters on Valentines Day. Mine never did. He always brought home a little red heart-shaped box of mixed chocolates for me. I could count on it. And daughters really need to count on dads.

By the time my daughters got to elementary school, the ante had been upped. I think it’s a racket, but days before the 14^th, parents were given the opportunity to order bouquets of helium balloons tethered to stuffed bears which would be ostentatiously delivered to the object of your affection in his or her classroom on Valentines Day. All of the friends and classmates would take note and be envious, unless of course they, too, received a balloon bouquet. Hence the problem. You had to be on your toes not to let the pre-order date get by you, and then there was the issue of how many balloons to buy. And I always felt bad for those kids whose parents either let the date slip or just couldn’t afford to make the effort. Another reason I’m not too fond of the holiday.

One thing I do like about Valentines Day is that it serves as a symbolic bridge between winter and spring. It’s bright and happy and red. And right after that you can count on buttercups and longer days and softer earth, and purple barefoot flowers. For those who might not know about barefoot flowers, they are the tiny multi-petaled lilac blooms that pop up in yards during March and April, after which time it’s perfectly alright to go barefoot. The door opens, and spring steps in. But you have to pass Valentines Day first.

So even if Kris Rayburn has moved on without me, I’m OK. And even if the day passes by like any other, I still feel pretty special. I may not be the holiday’s biggest fan, but I do know it’s nice to give love a chance and maybe a special day set aside just for that helps us all remember that. And I’m still checking the mailbox.

(Contributed by Alli)

It’s 11 a.m. on a Saturday morning and I’m sitting in the living room of my apartment in Oklahoma. I’ve had two cups of coffee and I’m three episodes into a show I’ve seen all the way through at least 5 times before, but what can I say? I’m more of a creature of habit than I’d like to admit. The show follows a big‑city‑born doctor that moved to a stereotypical small town in Alabama. While some parts of the show are obviously exaggerated, I believe there are several things that the show gets right. However, I don’t think you could really understand that unless you moved outside of the region that God spent the most time making and the place that only those who can deal with the heat, humidity, mosquitoes, bacon grease, and fried everything get to call home—The South.

A little about me first. I grew up in Alabama. It’s the Heart of Dixie, the home of the Crimson Tide, the originator of Mardi Gras, and it’s where engineers built the first rocket to put humans on the moon.  Most importantly, it’s home to my favorite gas station that doubles as a breakfast meeting place where the farmers get together to talk about the weather, tractor parts, and undoubtedly fuss about how some politician did something that wasn’t kosher. My favorite table is next to the wall—the one next to an orange and blue painted chain tacked on the wall in the shape of a saw with a sign hanging under it explaining that it is an “Auburn Chainsaw.” See, the owner of the store loves Alabama football. As an Alabamian, one must choose a side, either Auburn or Alabama, regardless of whether the Alabamian in question attended the institution. I’m sure that rule is written somewhere in the state constitution. My favorite table is also next the fluorescent blue bug zapper. I like it because you can hear the slight zing when a fly hits it. It makes me feel good knowing that there’s one less fly in the world. I mean in all honesty, how much effort would it have taken Noah to swat a couple on the ark and eradicate the entire existence of flies? Not much probably.

I digress. I moved to Mississippi after spending 22 years in Alabama. To most people, that move would be a downgrade. After all, if Alabama is the heart of Dixie, Mississippi is the armpit of Dixie, geographically speaking. I admit, Mississippi is not everyone’s cup of tea, and for that fact, I am glad. I love people, but I love space, too. I catapulted myself to the Washington D.C. Metro area after a few years in the armpit. Please, ask me about culture shock. Moving from Mississippi to Washington DC provides a shock like what you feel when you fall for the “Hey, can you grab the electric fence to make sure it’s still on?” trick. I learned invaluable lessons; the kind of lessons that never leave you, similar to the ones you learn after you touch a hot stove, roll your eyes at your Dad, or forget to put baking powder in biscuits. Some lessons you can’t forget no matter how hard you try, for better or for worse.

This is where the TV show comes back into this conversation. The show highlights the fact that Southerners genuinely care about each other, they smile at whoever they pass on the sidewalk, and they always initiate grocery store checkout line conversations about the weather or college football. Living near D.C., a geographical area that is home to 6-ish million people, means that people become desensitized to other people. No one smiles at strangers. Everything seems to be created with the intention of minimizing the chance that a human must interact with another human. Self-checkouts rule the roost, ordering food from mobile apps is preferred because work can’t be done if you have to wait in line and swipe your credit card and say a 5-second hello to the Starbucks barista or fast-food cashier. I am sure there are pockets of hospitality and warmth, but for the life of me, I don’t know how you would go about finding them in a place like that. One last thing, and I know I’ve already suggested this, but no one smiles at strangers. Large metropolitan areas might be the most dynamic places where a young professional can climb the corporate ladder and learn to love the hustle and bustle and become well-versed on different wines and whiskeys, but, it’s not for me.

My happiest day was driving west on I-66 one horribly rainy and cold Saturday morning in November because it meant that I would soon be turning on I-81 in my favorite direction—South. Away from businesses that never close, away from business suits and shiny shoes, away from drivers who use the car horn to convey anger. I was going back toward a place where everything closes around 9, back to where Carharrt coveralls are the more popular workplace attire of choice, and the home of drivers who use the car horn to wave at someone across the intersection.

The week after that 12-hour drive from Washington D.C. to Alabama, I was walking downtown to the framing shop and was waiting to cross Main Street when a Dodge 2500 diesel truck with a slightly lopsided grill and some rust spots on the hood, came to a stop, honked and waved at me with a smile, so that I could walk across the road. I don’t know who he was and he didn’t know who I was, but he stopped traffic and smiled at stranger. Even though I am now in Oklahoma and technically not in the Deep South—even though the fried chicken isn’t as great and the accents aren’t as spectacular as home—people still smile at strangers and that’s good enough for me.

We’ve lived in this house for more than 25 years and it shows. I probably should have been a military wife because I hopefully wouldn’t have collected so much stuff if I had to move every few years. Surely I wouldn’t have. But then, it’s not all my fault. There are several others who share this house with me and I can, and do, blame them for the massive amount of clutter that occupies just about every open surface.

I’ve tried going it on my own, cleaning out closets and going through stacked mail, throwing away or giving away what I’m certain no one will miss or need. I even tried the trick of putting things I wasn’t absolutely certain of in a bag or box in the back of a closet, before moving it out of that purgatory for good if no one asks about it in a couple of months. Often that works, but it’s just as likely that my husband will miss the unopened utility bill from 2 years ago as soon as I’ve stealthily toted it to the trash. It’s really amazing and incredibly aggravating that he has all the paper piles so completely memorized. I think if I threw away an empty potato chip bag from 1981 that he’d miss that too. In fact, I’m sure of it.

I’m not a hoarder nor do I live with any, and I don’t think I’m a candidate for a reality show just yet, but I want to make sure I never get there. I’ve tried self-help books. I really have. And I’ve bought countless decluttering magazines that promise the best method of living clutter free forever. And then I dust around the decluttering books that take up even more space on the crowded countertop. And just like a failed addict, the cycle continues.

This is not a new development for me. Years ago, on yet another junk removal binge, I bought a magazine promising to teach you how to live clutter free forever. This was on the way to pick up my teenaged daughters at school. Without much room in the car that day, I laid the magazine at my feet, made it through the pickup line with both girls in tow, and headed home.

Determined as I was to immediately start the clean-living routine, I reached over to remove a hair from Jenn’s shoulder to toss out the window. But the Chevy Blazer’s window had quit working, so I had to open the door slightly to toss out the single hair. Of course, the domino effect was that the new magazine slid out of the cluttered car at the same time, landing squarely in the middle of the turn lane as the light turned green.

Horrified middle schoolers that they were, both girls watched with disbelief as their mom leaped out of the car to retrieve the priceless decluttering magazine that had fallen from the cluttered car, temporarily holding up traffic all the while. They can probably even tell you what I was wearing that day, as seared into their psyche as that scene still is. I think that was the moment that I realized I have a problem and need help.

But now I have the solution. It may be just one step short of rehab but it’s worth a try. I’ve decided to follow the Japanese life-changing magic of tidying up. As an overprivileged American, I’ve lived too long in the luxury of stuff. From my years of studying junk removal, I know that stuff controls us. It demands your time and energy and it drains your zen.

I really want that clean white palette with just a single pink lily artistically arranged in a glass vase on a glistening surface. With maybe a bit of incense and spa music thrown in. I want a roomy closet with color-coordinated items on white hangers that all match. Soft lighting would help. Or at the very least I want to be able to walk into the closet without turning sideways.

No Tractor Supply caps haphazardly hanging out, or guitar cases and shoeboxes of old Barbies shoved under the bed. I don’t’ want to trip over the box of VHS tapes that we’ll never watch again or ramble through the bathroom junk drawer in search of the thermometer or fingernail clippers or dental floss, but find only empty shoe polish cans and expired poison ivy cream. I’d love to have dresser drawers that actually close and more than one matching sock.

And the thing is that I know it’s possible and I’m determined to make it happen. The Japanese tidying art promises to change your life forever and I’m ready for that. From what I understand, all I have to do is pull out everything I own, by category, and pile it up. Beginning with clothes, I’m to hold each piece and see how I feel. If the piece makes me feel the delight of holding a new puppy, then I’m to keep it. And if I don’t get that vibe, I toss it out, but only after thanking it for its service as I ever so gently put it in the giveaway bag.

I must admit, I’ve never talked to my clothes or felt any sort of emotion toward them, but I guess I could try it. Maybe they’ll go away more willingly if I thank them and wish them well first. The few items that I get to keep must be folded in a prescribed fashion so that they’re comfortable in the drawer and easily accessible—and color coordinated, I’m sure.

I don’t know why I didn’t realize before just how noisy clutter makes a house. Apparently visual clutter is always carrying on a conversation with you, sometimes even screaming at you so that you are never relaxed in your own home. The one thing I really don’t need is screaming junk.

What I’m a bit worried about is the paperwork. My Japanese guru advises cleaning up my own paper clutter first so that family members will follow suit in their own time, hopefully sooner rather than later. I don’t think she knows my family, though. I’m really not even sure they’ll notice.

But drastic times call for drastic measures, so I’m not above sorting out their mess for them. No particular method and no holds barred; If pushed to the wall, I can make it happen. After all, that’s the American way.

“Hey, Ladybug!” is Ms. Edith’s usual greeting from behind the desk at B&G OK Tire Store. Ms. Edith is a fixture at the tire place that she and her husband started up several decades ago. There’s no telling how long she’s been greeting people that way but you can count on it. Well, I guess you can count on it if you’re a woman; I don’t know if she has a pet name for men, but most likely she does, because she doesn’t discriminate. I’ve often wondered why they didn’t give the tire store a better name than “OK,” like maybe “Stupendous” or at least “Excellent,” but it’s obviously not my tire store. Apparently they weren’t too optimistic on opening day 50 years ago.

Some days, you might be “Angel” instead of “Ladybug,” but she always makes you feel special. For many years, until she grew too old and tired, she would send a birthday card to everybody at First Baptist, and to others that were in her outside circle. The cards were always signed “Ms. Edith and Mr. Tom.” You could count on a card from her even if no one else remembered.

Another thing you can count on is conversation while your tires are being rotated or repaired. Her view of the parking lot through the full-length front window gives plenty of opportunity for comment on goings on outside. And she has no shortage of stories and questions for you, so that there is little time to actually see a Fox News report on the little waiting room TV. If you don’t want to talk, don’t go to B&G. And I love that about it. It’s really more than OK.

“See you later, Angel,” she calls, when your car is finally ready. And you leave, feeling better than when you came.

I love pet names. Ms. Rhona’s favorite is “Doll.” Ms. Rhona is the matriarch of McKendree Methodist, overseeing just about everything that goes on there. If there is something she can be involved with or can support, she’s there. And I don’t think she has a moniker for the men, but every woman there is a doll.

“Why, Doll,” she smiles after you’ve just complimented yet again her famous yellow cake with the thick cooked chocolate frosting, “I’ll bring you the recipe!” And she does, handwritten on a lined index card. That’s pretty special.

Mr. Bullard trains and raises bird dogs in Cleveland. With only one son and no grandchildren, he’s taken a special interest in our daughters, even gifting us once with a retired bird dog. To him, both girls are Sweet Pea. But you have to say it right. It’s sort of like Swaaeet Paaee. You have to draw out the long A and E sounds in one long fluid motion, if that’s even possible. Actually don’t try it, unless you were born and raised in the Southeast. But Mr. Bullard has it down pat and they love it.

You don’t even have to know someone to bestow a pet name. I’ve been called Sweetie multiple times at the McDonald’s drive thru window, and the lady at the grocery store checkout calls me Baby. Most kids are named Punkin or Sweetheart if you don’t know their real name, and rowdy little boys are knuckleheads. But if you’re a man and you call a boy a knucklehead, you have to add the hand motion of rubbing his head with your balled up fist. That one takes talent. A variant of Sweetie that you might try is Sweetie Pie. My grandmother went a step further, naming me “Lynnie Pie,” which no one else has ever called me and probably never will. At least I hope not.

Making people feel special isn’t hard. Everybody needs a name, and if you don’t know it, you just make one up. Just make sure it’s one they’ll most likely agree with. I’ve never once heard anyone complain about being a Sweetie Pie or a Darlin’. I wouldn’t try Dumplin’ but you might be safe with Muffin. In fact, just about anything related to sweet food is OK—like Sugar Pie, or Cupcake. Possibilities are just about limitless.

“So, Ladybug,” begins Ms. Edith, “I’ve got just a minute so tell me how those girls are doing.” And you know she really cares because she called you ladybug. And it will definitely be more than a minute.

I don’t really understand why I love Target but hate Walmart. It’s not worth the time it would take to psychoanalyze the situation, but the fact remains that I love Target. If I were blindfolded and led into the store, I’m pretty sure I could tell the difference between Target and Walmart by smell alone. Target is usually associated with Starbucks, which is conveniently located near the front door, so the first thing to note is the comforting aroma of coffee beans and whipped cream-topped macchiatos. Passing Starbucks, you’ll no doubt find the Target café, which always offers popcorn, pizza, big soft pretzels and Cherry Coke. Maybe it’s the bright red color motif or the wide aisles that attract me. Or it could be that I hardly ever have to wait in line to check out. It’s the happy place. But I really think there’s some sort of gravitational pull or witch dance ring that just draws us. Maybe it’s that mesmerizing red circle atop every Target. I wish I knew.

On a recent visit, my husband asked if I brought my list, and I said “What list? Who needs a list?” The fact is that Target speaks to you. You really don’t need a list, as you just push a buggy along and listen for directions, obediently popping items into the cart that are not at all what you had in mind when you entered. It’s amazing how that happens. On my visit last week, I picked up a National Geographic magazine on medieval history, a bag of Hershey’s mint-flavored chocolate kisses, a box of night light bulbs, a mixing bowl, birdseed, matches, and some dog treats. And I needed every bit of that. That was just Aisles 1-8. I still had 15 to go so you can imagine what I actually left with.

You can even find a Target if you are in an unfamiliar city, with little to no assistance. My daughter, who is attending Oklahoma State University, drove over an hour to find the nearest Target, and knew she was getting close when she saw a Chick Fil-A, followed by an Ulta, and then Five Guys Burgers. Target keeps the same friends just about everywhere it lands. She is truly her mother’s daughter, as the trip to Target was a treat she gave herself on her birthday. An hour’s drive across the windswept Oklahoma plains is a girl on a mission.

Walmart is more utilitarian. I go there only if I’ve exhausted all other possibilities. If you need packing boxes or garden fertilizer or motor oil, I suppose that’s your best option, but only if all else fails. I think what bothers me most about Walmart is the huge fans that blow through the entrance foyer and the obligatory hello that is expected as you greet the greeter. And then there are the narrow aisles that are almost always cluttered with people who only see each other at Walmart and who must stop dead in the tracks to visit. Any store where you really should have turn signals on the cart to be safe is a bit much for me. No pleasing Starbucks aroma and no softly whispering products subliminally advising you to take them home. And the parking lot! Don’t get me started.

I’ve always liked most big “everything” stores. Growing up, that meant Kmart or Grants, or on a smaller scale, TG&Y. My grandmother shared that enthusiasm; when she stayed overnight, it always meant a trip to Grants for dish towels or fabric or underwear—and always something for me, like conversation hearts or a Milky Way. We lost my grandmother and Aunt Evie at TG&Y once and found them sitting in the back seat of the wrong car in the parking lot. Well, it did look a lot like ours.

My best friend and I pretty much grew up in Kmart, or at the bowling alley in the front parking lot of Kmart. We’d bowl on Friday night, spend the night at her house, and then be chauffeured by her mom back to Kmart on Saturday morning to make goofy pictures in the photo booth and to pick up a few 45 rpm records and cheap jewelry and David Cassidy posters. Funny, I could have sworn that was a lot more fun than it sounds now.

My affinity for those stores is hereditary, I think. My father can describe in detail the rolling store that used to pass by the farm. It had chicken coops hanging off the back to simplify the collection of chickens that farmwives might trade for dry goods. While the rolling store owner took a lunch break, he would often let my dad hang out in the truck bed to examine the merchandise. For a few years, Daddy’s dream was to own a rolling store. It’s a good thing he decided accounting had a bit more future.

I know Amazon is happy to deliver just about anything I might want, overnight and with no shipping charges. But where is the sport in that? The thrill of the hunt is to grab that little red buggy and just see where it leads you. The problem is that it always ends with the checkout. And that’s where the rubber meets the road. But they even give you a magic Red Card that takes care of that. And the best thing is it’s tied to my husband’s account. The one who thinks I might need a list.

The sun broke over the river right about on time. It was predictable and it was what we came to see, but this sunrise was not like any other. On this day, we had gathered on the riverbank yet again to sit in cold metal chairs and shiver in our short-sleeved pastel dresses and suits that we were determined to wear because we had chosen them especially for this day. It was Easter.

Intent on the horizon, we heard the same story of new life that we always heard at this time of year and watched the brightening sky for any indication of an awakening sun. Little by little, the day lightened and the river began to shimmer in competing tones of lilac and pink, darkening to a rippling deep orange and then blinding bright yellow as the sun burst forth and we reluctantly had to look away. Finally, the river returned to its usual state of emerald green and continued its lazy course into Tennessee, smugly content with having wowed us with the light show.

And then we turned our attention to the message at hand, being delivered by a seasoned pastor who had seen many Easters and many sunrise services. But he really didn’t need to say too much about new life and new beginnings. The sunrise had just convinced us of that without uttering a word. In fact, words always fall a bit flat after the miracle of a new day. What God says in one sunrise over the river can’t be duplicated in a million well-planned messages.

I like words. I stink at math but I love to paint pictures with words. Even so, there are no words capable of conveying the true picture of dawn breaking over a riverbank early on Easter morning. Others might be able to, but I know I simply can’t verbalize the hope and assurance and God-given natural beauty of an April sunrise over the Tennessee River, no matter how much I like to try.

Not all sunrise services are bright, though Sometimes the clouds don’t part and there is no evidence of a sun at all. In fact, more often than not, we’re disappointed that the light show doesn’t come off and the river remains hazy gray. The only pastel hues are in the dresses we choose and we’re an incredibly poor substitute for the brilliance of a sunrise. But that’s when we have to rely on words of promise and listen more intently than we see. And we have to believe in miracles and take joy in the day anyway.

Occasionally, we attended Easter sunrise services at Wilson Park in downtown Florence, arriving at first light, eager to see the sun come up from behind First Baptist, which bordered the park on the east. Same cold metal chairs, same pastel dresses, same song, second verse. The song never grows old, though, and the story never tires and the beauty never dims. Even if there is no sunrise behind the clouds, we know it’s there and we commit to the same time and place next year because we have hope and we have faith and it’s what we do.

Easter is a simple story, really, of a miracle that doesn’t need a lot of embellishment on our part. But embellishing is what we do. A local church hires a helicopter to fly over a field near our house, scattering 20,000 eggs—symbolizing new life, of course—to hundreds of children who are then released onto the field in a mad rush to collect as many eggs as possible. After that, they are treated to free face painting, games, and inflatables. Another church competes with a petting zoo, Easter bunny photo sessions, and a live DJ.

We just can’t help it. We are certain that something as uncomplicated and as beautiful as the story of sacrifice and new life needs our help to a jazz it up and make it more entertaining. We are intent on driving the car when what we should actually do is just move over and look out the window and be happy. But I suppose that’s OK as long as we never lose sight of the story and the season. We mean well.

The message is not at all complex, though, and it doesn’t need props. It can be told on a riverbank at sunrise on Easter morning or it can grace the sitting area of a nursing home on any Sunday where a few nodding gray heads vaguely remember the same story from earlier days in faraway places. Its joy is evident in the breakfast served in the fellowship hall on Easter before the few early risers gather to hold hands in prayer around the purple draped cross out front. And its predictability and familiarity ground us.

Sunrise or not, the promise is the same whether we want to believe it or not. Regardless of our convictions, we all get up each morning with no doubt, in fact with full faith, that a day is promised and that the sun will rise. It’s just really nice to have that confirmation at the same place at the same time each year. And that’s Easter. But I have no doubt that it’s a story best told on a riverbank at sunrise in Alabama.

It was a cool, clear October morning in 1981. My brother and I lugged what felt like a 2,000 pound steel canoe down the embankment, studded with the above-ground roots of hardwood trees that had probably been guarding that part of the creek for decades. They had stubbornly held on through many storms and floods, dedicated to the job of just living. He in the front, and I in the back, we as gently as possible lowered the canoe into the water, stepped in, and pushed off. Just the two of us, skimming along under the ancient railroad bridge and down the 10-mile trek to Goose Shoals. He was just out of college and I wasn’t far behind, and today was no special day. And yet it is one of those days that reminds me that of all the days in your life, the most important one is Right Now.

It was just a brother taking his little sister along for a day-long float down the creek, meandering along the shady stretch from Tennessee into Alabama. Not much paddling required, but I do remember a lot of dodging of tree limbs and brush and rocky shoals, and a lot of teamwork. A 2,000 pound canoe, it turns out, doesn’t turn on a dime. We didn’t set out to make a memory that day, and in fact he might not even remember it at all, but the tagalong little sister sure does.

As I booted up the computer to write this piece, the first headline to appear on my screen was the sad details of a 150-passenger Ethiopian plane that had crashed, killing everyone. And just last Sunday, 23 people in South Alabama were going about their day, probably planning their week, when a killer tornado randomly wiped out all those plans in an instant. Days that begin on an even keel can go sideways in an instant, but most don’t. In fact, most go by without much ado, and I’m actually very thankful for that. Still, I’m reminded that the most important day of the week is Right Now because it’s all that we have.

I saw a home fixer-upper piece that featured a bathroom redo and I’m inspired. The designer had lettered “One Step at a Time” on the wall of the shower as an important reminder for the showerer. I know exactly what I intend to letter on mine. Seriously. It will be “Give Us Today.”

Those of us who recite the Lord’s Prayer in church pretty much fly right by that text in the rush for fried chicken dinner or naps, and that’s OK, as long as we realize that right here and right now is life. It’s going on right in front of our eyes, day by day and minute by minute. Give us today.

No matter the circumstances, each morning that God decides to wake us up is a gift. It lands smack dab in the middle of our laps; I imagine it as a little square foil-lined box with a really big gold bow that we get to unwrap and dig around in. It’s never a certainty that we’ll get another so we sure as heck better appreciate this one. And personally, I think a bit of joy is the best way to begin that.

The world is definitely a scary and not so nice place. But just when I’ve come to that solid conclusion, the bearded guy in the farm pickup truck blowing his horn behind me swings around and rolls his window down to report that my taillight is out so maybe I’d better get that fixed. Sheepishly, I thank him, glad he couldn’t read my mind earlier. Right Now and Right Here is the best place to be.

It might not be Pooh’s Hundred Acre Wood, but it helps to go there every now and then to reorient an attitude. Or you might choose Main Street in Mayberry or even a favorite memory like I did.

“What day is it?”

“It’s today,” squeaked Piglet.

“My favorite day,” said Pooh.

Mine too, Pooh. Mine too. Just give us today.