We planned to go til the map turned blue, somewhere near Daytona, and then turn north up A1A. She was my ready companion, navigator, alternate driver, and youngest daughter. College was just over the horizon and her days at home were numbered. So we hit the road.

After an overnight at Lake Mary, we left the interstate and headed east. Trees dripping with Spanish Moss shaded roadside produce stands, and orange groves fanned out on both sides of the road. We got up early to sit on the cold sand and watch the sun rise over the endless Atlantic, and we climbed all 219 steps of the St. Augustine lighthouse. Just the two of us. Zac Brown and Jimmy Buffett comprised the playlist for our Thelma and Louise getaway. It was the first of many.

We saw Michael Buble in concert in Nashville and Memphis, and made an impromptu Jason Aldean concert stop in Athens, Georgia. That one almost didn’t happen when we assumed there would be at least one hotel vacancy in Athens. As it turns out, Jason Aldean is pretty popular. We watched the concert from behind the hedges at the UGA stadium one balmy April night, shared a midnight snack at the local McDonalds, bought a t-shirt, and made memories.

We mastered air travel and rental cars and tour buses and subways and harbor cruises. We learned to love Boston, especially Carmelina’s Italian Restaurant in North End. We also learned to respect Boston’s Court Street when we clearly underestimated the time it would take to dash across all 8 lanes in 10 seconds with Ann Taylor and Banana Republic bags fanned out behind us. Boston drivers aren’t nearly as courteous as those in Savannah, Georgia.

We share a lack of attention to detail but it’s how we roll and it usually works out. As long as one of us hangs on to a debit card and we each maintain access to a photo ID, we figure we’re set. What we lack in focus, we make up for in commitment. We can be up and out by 4 a.m. any day as long as we have a destination in mind and as long as I’m paying.

My oldest daughter and husband are much more grounded and anxious so we don’t tell them a whole lot about our near misses. It would drive them crazy. There was absolutely no point in worrying them about the cell phone I thought I had left at the rest area in Illinois. It showed up under the car seat the next morning, so all’s well that ends well.

And we’re nowhere done yet. There are a lot of things I miss about having little ones in the house, but one thing I never planned on is how much I would also enjoy them as we somehow got closer in age and became friends. Life is pretty serious, and 20-something-year-olds have major decisions to make that I can’t do a whole lot about. So we leave it all behind sometimes.

Occasionally, we head to Fairhope and walk or bicycle by the bay and dream of actually owning one of those houses by the water. I’d name mine Nest Egg or maybe Just Beachy. I’d even settle for a house on Tybee Island, as long as it had ready access to A.J’s Dockside. My youngest has promised to buy me a Lily Pulitzer bicycle in floral print when she earns her first big money as a college professor. I’m going to hold her to it.

We’ve made the rounds, ordering the shrimp basket at Sea-n-Suds in Gulf Shores and the grain bowl at Cava in D.C. We’ve taken the Boston Duck Tour and the Savannah Ghost Tour, and the Newport bus tour. We’ve seen buttercups in the snow at Arlington and red tulips blooming for Mardi Gras in South Alabama. We’ve walked through a cool Savannah square beside old men coordinating checker moves on an upturned box and we’ve braved the inky blackness of a Smoky Mountain midnight to marvel at synchronized fireflies.

In an earlier generation, when I was the daughter of another mother/daughter duo, Aunt Ruth drove up from Louisiana to join Mama and me and my grandmother for a jaunt to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Just a bunch of women in a bright red 1978 Cadillac gamboling through the rolling Ozark Mountains, stopping at every junk and antique store along the way. Not far into the trip the air conditioning failed and we had a flat tire, which none of us knew how to correct. And cell phones didn’t exist. So we laughed and figured it out. Somehow we got a tow and a new tire and a sweet memory.

So now we’re thinking about our next trip. I’m leaning toward San Antonio in June, but we have yet to take the plunge to Hawaii, so we’ll see. My travel buddy is studying at Oklahoma State to become an Agricultural Economist, which is really cutting into the travel time. I don’t understand what’s so hard about learning to count cows, but Oklahoma apparently takes it more seriously than we do in Alabama.

What I know is that at the end of that time, she’ll honor her word and get me the flashy new bicycle. Then we’ll have to take it to Key West or Amelia Island for spins around the beach. And if I can figure out how to declare it as a carry-on, we’ll take it to Tuscany. Because we’re going til the wheels fall off.

Interstates are great things, especially when it’s necessary to cross a state like Kansas or Missouri. At least that’s what I used to think, and still do, if I’m in a real hurry. Assuming you stay awake long enough, the destination is counted off in endless mile marker ticks, with a few rest stops thrown in to break the monotony along the way.

You might even luck up on a cookie-cutter McDonalds for $1 sweet tea, which is always a nice break. Or maybe the Love’s skewered hot dog with beads of sweat from no telling how many days is more your style. They’re a dime a dozen on the interstate and truckers must love them. They may not be Subway fresh but they’re sustenance and they’re available. Personally, I think I’d choke down licorice Twizzlers or turkey jerky before I’d order one, but surely somebody does.

Before we knew better than to attempt a two-day haul from Alabama to Wyoming, we made that dream vacation, stopping at Topeka for the night and then driving 19 hours to Jackson, Wyoming. That’s right. 19 hours. All in one day. I’m not proud of it, but it’s there. That included an east-to-west interstate passage across Kansas. So no one can ever again impress me with single day mileage.

We were bent on the destination and took no side trips. We missed Eisenhower’s Library and the Pony Express Trail and Kansas City Barbecue. We never slowed down over the Continental Divide, not even for the stone bust of Lincoln at the highest spot on I-80, and we certainly didn’t side trip it to Independence Rock, a resting place for Oregon Trail travelers 180 years ago. We obviously didn’t believe in rest at that time and had no peripheral vision at all. We were on a mission to have fun. And we did have fun, but mostly after we got there.

If I had it to do over again, I’d stretch the same trip to 3 or 4 days and then I’d take every interesting side road and touristy stop along the way. I wouldn’t just wonder where that arrow-straight Kansas Hwy. 83 led as we sailed by the exit. I’d take it right to the Buffalo Bill Cultural Center and actually learn something about local lore. I’d talk to people and smile more and I can guarantee I wouldn’t stumble into the predawn chill of a Wyoming dude ranch like a zombie in crumpled capris and sandals because it was a whole lot warmer 19 hours earlier in East Kansas. And I don’t think I’d still consider Kansas a flyover state.

Growing up, we took a vacation every summer, but interstates didn’t always connect just right so we spent a lot of time on slower roads. My parents also believed that travel is education so I personally walked through the state capitols of Alabama, Mississippi, Florida, Louisiana, Texas, and Tennessee. Did you know that the Texas state capitol building is actually taller than the U.S. Capitol? That bit of useless trivia is a direct result of taking side roads, and just look how much richer and more educated I am for it. I now know for a fact that everything is bigger in Texas.

Peering down into that massive but impossible-to-fold-back-up state map, my mom navigated to all sorts of side attractions. Nothing was too obscure for us. We veered off I-10 to Sewanee in Florida to see alligators and Spanish moss and Stephen Foster’s old folks at home. We took in views of Houston’s seaport from the top floor of the San Jacinto Historic Site and we tramped through every inch of the USS Alabama. All we didn’t have for our road trips was the 12-foot-long boat of a wood-paneled station wagon that I longed for, which was a real problem in my Brady Bunch wannabe years. But even in the Ford Galaxy 500, even cooped up in the backseat with an annoying older brother, the fact that we were pretty much forced to get out of the mainstream because there was no mainstream was one of those blessings in disguise.

Side roads and sidewalks and bicycle trails—just about anything that runs alongside a main thoroughfare is an adventure in fresh air and small things. The first thing those byways do is make you slow down. Speed has its reason for existence. I’m not suggesting that being in a hurry is always a bad thing, but neither is slowing down. You might even chance it and roll the window down. And if you’re really retro, pack a picnic lunch. From personal experience, I can report that Shiloh Battleground has an excellent setup of shade and concrete picnic tables, as does just about every stop along the Natchez Trace Parkway. Just don’t forget the shoestring potatoes and Chips Ahoy.

Side roads don’t always run perpendicular to the highway. Some of the best side roads just sidle along beside the main road, giving space for things other than cars. I don’t think Tishomingo County has a budget line item for the set of ruts that parallel Hwy. 25, but those ruts are well maintained anyway by shirtless, caps-on-backward, teenaged boys bent on 4-wheeler speed, but not necessarily safety, zigging and zagging in and out of the Mississippi briers and kudzu in a cloud of red dust. In violation of probably every traffic law on the books, those caked-with-clay ATVs spend most of the time teetering on two wheels with a rider on the back clinging to whatever is still attached in a near-death dangle. And then they do it all over again. That’s some kind of side road.

More tame bike lanes that more well-funded cities can afford give roadside space for bicyclers in spandex shorts and well dressed walkers of fancy groomed dogs. Fairhope comes to mind. Those byways are quiet and serene, with sunsets that you just have to stop for before making your way back to the bay house or condo or overpriced hotel room. Still, it’s a side road of sorts that leaves you feeling better for making the effort at leaving the road.

It’s all about leaving the road. Taking a side step. Taking a side ride. Breathing something other than recirculated car air conditioning. Feeling something other than tired and focused and burdened. Losing a few years and checking out the Indian mound, maybe even climbing all 220 lighthouse steps.

Making memories. And making time, in all sorts of ways. Sometimes the fastest way to get somewhere isn’t the best, and time is better made by actually slowing down.

Are we there yet? I sure hope not.

Several years ago, while going through a bunch of old books at my grandmother’s house, I ran across a treasure. It is a 1934 edition of a Nancy Drew mystery, The Clue of the Broken Locket. Signed “Love, Kutaw,” it was a gift to my aunt from her best friend back in the day. The cover is a bit frayed and faded, with a cloth-covered cardboard backing that is nicked and wobbly at the edges. And there on the front is the classic orange imprint of the detective, bent over with a magnifying glass in her investigative pose, clearly intent on something of interest.

Nancy Drew used to be every girl’s role model. She has never aged, still sporting the same fearless attitude and thirst for adventure that every tween-ager wishes she could emulate. So far as I know, she has never been employed, living instead off her famous lawyer dad’s income and enjoying lunches prepared by the live-in housekeeper, Hannah Gruen. Still, she earns her keep, if not monetarily, at least in the excitement she provides with her keen eye for unearthing clues and righting wrongs in River Heights. Even the police captain sometimes calls her in for help on a case. And who wouldn’t want to be her best friend? Especially if you also get to speed along a dusty back road in search of clues in that bright blue roadster.

So, for sentimental reasons, I decided to collect some old Nancy Drew books from the 1930s and actually found a few scattered around in local antique stores. And then I hit the mother lode in Savannah, Georgia, in the form of Books on Bay. The little bookstore is in a cramped space in the basement of an ancient waterfront building on River Street. It’s one of those places with plank wood floors that creak to announce your arrival. Sunbeams filtered through thick paned windows illuminate the dust motes dancing in the air that’s also thick with the smell of Old English furniture polish and musty pages.

Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves are packed with “friends,” according to the bookstore owner, a pleasant 60ish lady who is pleased to give you a tour. She specializes in antique children’s book series, including Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew, the Bobbsey Twins, Trixie Belden, the Hardy Boys, and Donna Parker.

“You know, I have lots of friends here,” she confides in her library voice. “I just love spending the day with them and introducing them to others.”

She leads me conspiratorially to a locked glass-front curio cabinet with a few of her more precious editions, one of which is a first printing of Nancy Drew’s Secret of the Old Clock.

“Would you like to hold it?”

“Sure,” I quaver, uncertain of how to respond to the magnitude of this moment.

“I’ll even take your picture.”

“OK!” I enthuse.

Dutifully I pose, cradling the priceless edition for the souvenir picture, before the book is returned to its place of honor and security behind glass.

As I make a lesser purchase and prepare to leave, Ms. Bookstore Owner muses that her favorite book heroines are the earlier ones because they were what young girls aspired to be. They were those that girls could look up to and feel drawn to. “Nancys” in more recent versions, she bemoans, act more like their proteges and give them nothing to hope for. They don’t set the best example, but instead validate lower ideals and status quo. Why, Nancy might even smoke and break traffic laws in the newer editions!

A bit bummed with that summary of the current state of children’s books, I’m that much more pleased with the tissue-wrapped package I leave with—Nancy’s Mysterious Letter and The Mystery of the Ivory Charm. I even scored a complimentary coffee mug emblazoned with a cat peering over a stack of hardback books from Books on Bay. And she also threw in a green canvas Nancy Drew Mysteries tote bag so I can carry Nancy and my new purchases with me everywhere.

And since I’m apparently now a member of the unofficial Books on Bay Nancy Drew Fan Club, I enjoyed a 20% discount. I hope she remembers my status the next time I’m in Savannah.

The most recent time I descended into the bookstore of friends on River Street, I found the owner in close conversation with a customer of like interest. Apparently, a renowned Nancy Drew artist was bringing in a print of one of the original dust jackets that you simply cannot find anymore. The painting would occupy a special place just inside the front door, sure to be appreciated by the Nancy Drew Fan Club and featured on its web site.

I’m definitely a collector and really appreciate the antiquity of my findings, but there’s a line I just can’t cross. As a suspected book nerd and acclaimed cat lady, I’m already suffering the humiliation of those stereotypes. Joining the Nancy Drew Fan Club, as tempting as that is, just can’t happen.

Still, there’s something about those old books that captivates me. I think maybe it’s the fantasy world they live in. Nancy doesn’t work and she never ages. She’s never scared and she’s never unsure of herself. Her boyfriend is the star of the football team at the local university. Her best friends are ever loyal. And on and on.

Story lines are unbelievable and occasionally ludicrous. And absolutely dated. And that’s OK.

“Listen girls,” advises Nancy to her chums in line at the train station. “If you see something suspicious, just raise your handbag in the air and wave it.” Bess and George, ever the feckless companions, nod in agreement and solemnly peruse their surroundings, ready at a moment’s notice to tinkle their handbags in the air inconspicuously.

Even the wording is enchanting. It obviously doesn’t take much to impress me and I’m afraid I’m living up to the stereotype I’m trying to avoid. Nevertheless, on my next trip to Savannah I have no doubt I’ll join the club at Books on Bay and settle in to the tattered leather sofa in the reading room to listen to the latest in book gossip. I’ll swoon over the most recent acquisition and maybe even get to hold it. And I’ll be happy.

The Magnolia Chain is a treasured tradition at Mississippi University for Women, or what was known as Mississippi State College for Women when my mother graduated in 1950. Most people just call it the W now, and to the horror of its well-heeled alumni of belles, the university currently admits men. I’m guessing that the tradeoff to a guy having a diploma from a former all-women’s college is the 500:1 female to male ratio on campus. That definitely stacks the odds in the boy’s favor, even if he does have to endure almost certain ribbing from his buddies over his hilariously fuzzy gender identification.

It’s not that MUW’s administrators and Mississippi state leaders don’t recognize the fallacy of implying a particular gender for admission when that is not actually the case, but the Steel Magnolia Chain of former graduates is a formidable foe who collectively refuse to support a change in name of their beloved alma mater. It’s tough to wear down a magnolia chain. Actually, it’s pretty much impossible.

They didn’t agree to Welty University, which would have given a nod to probably the most famous woman writer from Mississippi, or even Waverly University, a name long associated with rich southern history. In either of those cases, they could have retained the nickname of the W, which made sense to everyone except those demure but determined graduates who apparently pull all sorts of strings, including those of the state purse. So, the answer was a resounding no.

At any rate, the time-honored Magnolia Chain ceremony takes place outside on the lawn, before graduation exercises. Back in 1905, the state flower was selected for the chain, as it represented purity of achievement and growth. White for purity and green for growth. Graduating seniors line up to carry a long line of magnolia leaves and blossoms as they create a friendship circle, all the while singing the Magnolia Chain Song. Only in Mississippi…

In my mother’s day, those graduates were the cream of the crop of Mississippi ladies, educated in the very critical social arts of gentle conversation, entertaining, and good marriages, with a side of serious studies thrown in. They were Mississippi’s magnolias, versed in southern sisterhood, tact, and infinite grace. And they were tough as nails, Scarlet O’Hara style.

According to tradition, any graduate who is able to grab and dislodge a magnolia from the chain after the ceremony is sure to have good fortune and romance. The only problem with that scenario is that early in the life of the Magnolia Chain ceremony, there were always fewer flowers in the chain than graduates. And you can be assured that each graduate intended to leave with a magnolia.

And I hear that many of them did, but only after forgetting all about that southern sisterhood and grace they had spent years attaining, and making a mad dash to ravage the chain while shoving one another, stepping on hands, and spraining more than a few ankles. And then, rising from the fracas, straightening skirts, and brushing hair back into place, the victorious few collected their manners and their prized magnolia and called it a day. Getting what you want if at all possible is a valuable lesson learned somewhere along the way.

The fracas was obviously a problem, so today the chain has the same number of magnolias as graduates. The only competition on view is to see who is the first to pluck a blossom, which can also get pretty raucous but is probably not quite so determined a dash. No one goes home empty handed of fortune or romance.

My mother left with more than fortune and romance. She wound up with a wonderful family that included me. The fact that she was one of the few who didn’t even fight for a flower makes her no less a member of the elite Magnolia Chain of Mississippi belles. And actually, most of her education in Chain membership occurred on the front porch, not in a classroom. Because although paperwork from the W might testify to membership in the Chain, you actually don’t even have to be an alumnus of the university to link in. You just have to listen and learn, no matter where you are.

Sort of like the Masonic Lodge, the Chain is full of ceremony and secrecy and unwritten rules of behavior. And it’s not reserved just for those from Mississippi. They’ve expanded the membership to include any woman, or I suppose any man since we are now open admission, committed to the heritage of good grace and mannered living.

And although there is no written manual, we all know a few guidelines by heart…

• Never write or post anything you don’t want to see on a billboard on the interstate.
• Always write a thank-you note for just about anything that was not expected. And make it handwritten.
• Uncomfortable silence is the best response to any slight from a spouse or family member. The more uncomfortable, the better, until they cave. Of course, an apology from them should be immediate and heartfelt before the silence is lifted. (As I can personally attest, my mother was a master at this one.)
• Never wear white shoes before Easter.
• Learn to make homemade brownies or biscuits or caramel cake. Even if it comes from a box, never admit it and make it your signature dish. Just don’t give the recipe.
• Always get your way but don’t be obvious about it. And stop short of hurting anyone else, as that’s in very bad taste and not mannered at all.
• Don’t be afraid to compete with anyone for anything, be it a job, education, promotion, or place in the carpool line, but do it with tact and grace. The end result is the same, but others think a whole lot more of you when you’re not pushy.
• Always say thank you when complimented. That’s all. And always give compliments, but only if you really are impressed with something.
• Carry yourself with good posture. It makes you look younger and more confident. And make eye contact with everyone.
• Be grateful for everything every day.
• Be a lady (or gentleman) and always watch your language.
• The less said, the better. You can get your point across in a lot of ways that don’t always require words. See the previous bullet point. (This one is best learned and perfected just by living, but it also requires the most skill and restraint. It’s tough to master.)

There are, of course, subsets to those rules that require a lot more space than the quick guide given here. You have to get the complete manual for more definition, which is a bit difficult because it’s not actually published and Amazon doesn’t carry it.

There is no secret handshake and you don’t pay club dues and it doesn’t really matter your gender. If you’ve lived near or with a Magnolia Chain member, though, you know it and you’re absolutely committed to carrying on the tradition and honoring the unwritten protocol. And you’re perfectly willing to gracefully scrap for a magnolia, as long as no one is hurt in the process.

Life is definitely not a fairy tale. And I’m fully aware that not all endings are happy. That’s life but it’s not OK. Not even a little bit.

So many events and so many people we can’t control, but I just wish we could try a bit harder to end a few things halfway in tune, if not on a full chord of happiness. Real life can be depressing, but at least what we read and watch on TV could be uplifting. Is that too much to ask?

Growing up, I was a privileged recipient of Jack and Jill magazine each month. Every single cover was happy. The March issue might showcase an incredibly delighted little boy chasing after a colorful kite, while the July cover was invariably patriotic. It would probably have something to do with bicycles, flags, parades, and watermelon. It was an escape. No matter what was going on at school, no matter how much I dreaded some upcoming event, no matter what—Jack and Jill was happy and vibrant and totally predictable and very unrealistic. Life wasn’t.

So then on to high school and literature and classics. I wonder what makes a classic classic? Is it the tough-to-follow plot that ends in some weird twist of misfortune that leaves you absolutely bummed? I think that has to be it.

There are a few exceptions to that rule, I guess, but the first bad-ender that comes to mind is Lord of the Flies. What is that? An online review calls it “a dramatization of the conflict between the civilizing instinct and the barbarizing instinct that exists in all human beings.” It goes on to suggest a struggle between the ordered aspects of society and the chaotic elements of humanity’s savage animal instincts. Well that’s a promising bedtime read right there.

I read that one in Ms. Reynolds’ 11^th grade classroom on the second floor of Coffee High School. My book report was sort of short and I don’t think she liked it much, but that pig head on a stake surrounded by buzzing flies is seared into my psyche and I just had no words. Still don’t. I hope she’s happy.

I got lucky and was able to skip Of Mice and Men, but my daughter bears the scars of that one. She can recount in detail her disappointment at the way the story ends with the two friends being cornered, facing such certain death that the one who is not mentally challenged shoots to death his unsuspecting mentally ill friend to save the friend from a worse fate. That seems like a pretty poor outcome to me, so I’m not sure what could be much worse, but I’m sure I’d understand it if I had been forced to read and critically analyze it.

One reviewer subtitled that one “The Impossibility of the American Dream.” OK. Now I’m inspired.

One of my favorites, although it also ends badly, is The Great Gatsby. I’m not kidding. I really do like that one. It could be that I didn’t read the book but watched the movie, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, but most likely it’s just that I’m an F. Scott Fitzgerald fan. Even so, I just don’t see why Jay Gatsby couldn’t have run away with Daisy and left the mansion to his friends in organized crime. I know she’s a bubble head but at least he would have been happy. He could have just followed that weird green light at the end of his pier into a life of bliss where he wasn’t intent on impressing everybody.

I made the mistake of reading Where the Red Fern Grows because it was about dogs and I really liked dogs. If only I’d known that it ended with a favorite dog dying from injuries sustained fighting off a mountain lion to save his owner, while the surviving dog grieves beside the first dog’s grave until she herself dies a few days later. Now that one was uplifting. If only I’d chosen All Creatures Great and Small instead. Live and learn.

At least I didn’t waste time reading Old Yeller, although I did by mistake watch the Disney movie. Did Old Yeller just have to get in the fight and contract rabies so that Travis had to shoot his own dog? Could there not have been a bit better ending, like maybe Old Yeller dies of old age in his sleep on the couch in the living room? I would have been just as entertained and not haunted for a lifetime.

Some of us have watched Old Yeller and some of us haven’t. There are definitely two camps The scarred and the unscarred.

You might want to steer clear of William Faulkner, too. That is, unless you enjoy incredibly lengthy sentences and a whole lot of undercurrents that your English instructor is sure to ask you to uncover.

“From a little after two o’clock until almost sundown of the long still hot weary dead September afternoon they sat in what Miss Coldfield still called the office because her father had called it that—a dim hot airless room with the blinds all closed and fastened for forty-three summers because when she was a girl someone had believed that light and moving air…”

I’m no English scholar, but that has got to be representative of Miss Coldfield’s suppressed anger at her father, while the autumnal season suggests the death of an era. Of course, sundown, or fading light, is indicative of fading hope as her life nears its end and she has yet to realize any of the dreams that would have been possible had she acted on her talents and aspirations.

I’m no slouch when it comes to throwing words at a subject of which I know absolutely nothing.

If it were up to me, Scarlett and Rhett would have gotten back together, moved to Tara, planted a garden each spring, and raised racehorses. And Jack would have crawled up on that floating door with Rose and survived the Titanic.

Any book called Hunger Games is off my list, as is anything Stephen King. I know how Cold Mountain ends so I’m not even picking that one up. And finally, what makes Nicholas Sparks think that somebody always has to die?

It’s not impossible to end something well. Little Women ends with the sisters and parents and in-laws enjoying a garden party in the spring, while the children chase each other through the blooming apple orchard. I know Beth dies, but at least that’s not at the ending, so you have time to get over that before the curtain drops. I’ve yet to see an unhappy Hallmark movie, and Pride and Prejudice shows off a happy marriage for a change.

But then, after all the debauchery, partying, regrets, and wasted lives that Hemingway portrays in The Sun Also Rises, the protagonist muses “Yes, isn’t it pretty to think so?” He’s reflecting on what might have been, had the right choices been made, but what never would be

I agree. Just because life doesn’t always go well doesn’t mean there can’t be a few more happy endings. Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so?

If days had flavor, yesterday would have been bitter. It would have been a beautiful dish, full of gourmet expectation, that quickly disintegrates into horrid-tasting mush in your mouth. Something that you want to spit out, but can’t because it’s too far gone to gracefully do away with. If days had color, it would have been a gradient gray—one that began in the light white category, but progressed into a dark somber tone by noon. It’s funny how we expect to be so in control of our day when it begins, but one thought, one memory, one word, one action, one event immediately changes the progression into one over which we actually have zero control. We’re just along for the ride, no matter how wild or chilling or unwelcome it may become.

Yesterday, one of our family dogs, the one battling congestive heart failure with seemingly little effort, didn’t come out of her kennel when I opened it up early in the morning. Because she is 13 years old and almost totally deaf, I thought she was just sleeping in and couldn’t hear the others race out to meet the day. Minutes later, I realized that she physically couldn’t get her hind legs under her. With a little nudging and lifting, she moved out and to the patio, where she sank down for the last time. It was over. She lay there, struggling to breathe well, and totally immobile. She had just run out of steam for the last time. Her little body just could do no more. I knew the time had come but hoped I was wrong.

Duchess was a gift from a friend who raises bird dogs. She had borne several litters of puppies and was ready for retirement. The little black and white Brittany Spaniel joined our fleet of backyard canines, immediately taking on the role of mama. She snapped when she needed to and demanded what she should, but ran like a puppy and was immeasurably happy. On any hot summer day, she enjoyed sinking up to her neck in the little blue kiddie pool water that was always available to her. She ran like a Walking Horse, with her legs in seeming disconnect with her body as she raced after any squirrel that dared to move. On more than one occasion she actually caught the little fella, taking what was left of him to her kennel so her yard mates wouldn’t get to share the prize. She was just as protective of her food bowl. If any meal was not totally consumed, heaven help the buddy who showed any interest in helping do away with it. I’ve never seen a happier dog.

I love animals and have quite the collection. I’m really not partial to either dogs or cats, but can probably honestly answer when all cat ladies are called. I don’t appreciate the “crazy” label, but that’s a small price to pay for the joy of loving and caring for animals of all sizes. We have horses, dogs, and cats presently, but I’m open to exploring other options. At one time, we gave our backyard to two Border Collies, Frosty and Jenna. At 15 years of age, Frosty died, leaving Jenna alone. Because we thought she was too old and crotchety to welcome a younger dog, she spent the remainder of her years alone—relatively happy, but missing Frosty. I swore we wouldn’t make the mistake of having only two dogs again, so we fixed that problem by adopting four. And what a motley crew. There is Duchess, the purebred Brittany Spaniel with the milky caramel eyes that you could just melt into; Tucker, the crazy neurotic seizure-prone Border Collie who loves you like there’s no tomorrow; Rosie, the “Australian Shepherd” we bought from the Mennonite couple who swore she was purebred when she probably only walked by an Australian Shepherd sometime during her puppyhood; and Charlie, the short-haired brown and white mutt dropped on the side of the road by some jerk who has probably done the same with countless other dogs who had the misfortune of being associated with him. They race and play in our acre of a backyard like kids at preschool. I sometimes wish my days could be as carefree as every single one of theirs is. They have no fear of tomorrow because they don’t even know that tomorrow will come. All they have is now, and that’s not really a bad thing.

Our little Duchess took joy in so much. She was super excited to be let into the pool area where she would sink into the green grass or totter around the pool, occasionally taking a misstep and falling in. At least twice during her last summer with us, I had to fish her out, where she just shook it off and trotted on around and out. Her cough grew worse in the last few months, but we didn’t worry greatly because she never slowed down. Of course, we had her on medicine that removed some fluid, but that’s just buying time—at some point we knew it would just be too much for her. There is still an indentation in the ground under the bushes outside our bedroom window where she slept away many lazy hours. I could most often locate her by glancing outside the window to see that black and white ball of fur nestled in the shade of the bushes. What a life.

For five years, she brought us joy and laughter and daily companionship. And then she grew old. She began to fall more often and her gait was unsteady. She couldn’t hear, so when I called the others, I would often see her at the back of the yard, oblivious to my presence or the fact that the others had left her. I was certain that her days were numbered and I worried about the cold winter ahead. Unlike her, I could dread the time when she could go no more. I think that’s a curse we as humans endure. We can dread. Dogs can’t. But I had hope. I hoped the medicine would do what it should. I hoped the diagnosis was wrong. Each day, when she trotted out, hurrying to the next kennel door to greet the occupant as he emerged, I thought she looked better and was still with enough spunk to ward off the inevitable.

But then Tuesday came. A day like any other, except that she didn’t trot out of her kennel. By midmorning, we knew we had to see the vet. Even on the way, I convinced myself that her lack of mobility was most likely due to a spinal disorder like Rosie had encountered, which just required a couple of days of immobility and some miracle medicine. But a check of her heart and lungs confirmed the fact that her heart just wasn’t doing its job and that she had only a couple of days left—miserable days—if we didn’t make the decision to relieve her of that course. If you don’t love, you don’t lose. And we lost her on that day but we loved her for years. And she loved us. That’s the thing about animals that ensures that I’ll always have them with me. They love. And don’t we all need that?

Duchess is buried at the farm, in the ever-expanding animal cemetery. She is under an ages-old oak tree that gives just the amount of shade she would have enjoyed. She occupies the plot beside Willy, the cutting horse that died last April. Both of those animals technically belonged to Jennifer, who stayed beside both during their last minutes and who helped bury each one.

Willy has a yellow rose at his headstone. I think Duchess deserves a brilliant crimson rose bush for her love and loyalty. Yes, I think that’s it. And a headstone that reads “Duchess—True Royalty. You Will Be Missed and Loved Beyond Measure.”

Community is a unique combination of time and place and people. So much more than a pinpoint on a map or a post office address, a community is that place, that family group, that collection of experiences that shapes and shelters those who choose to be there. It doesn’t necessarily have geographic boundaries and it doesn’t even have to have a name, but those who are part of it know that it exists and know where to find it. And they call it home.

The community of Carolina is little more than a wide spot in the road in rural Itawamba County in the state of Mississippi. That’s really all you need to know. Too small to require a post office and too lost to be found, Carolina is simply out of the way for anyone who doesn’t live there. The place is as easily forgotten as it is remembered, and even if you happen to travel through it, you’ll be hard pressed to retrace your steps and try it again. Its history, though, is as rich as the dark soil upon which the community was built by homesick settlers from South Carolina in the 1840s. Located in Northeast Mississippi, a few miles off Highway 78 as the road winds along between Fulton and Tupelo, Carolina is not located on anyone’s map or GPS. But much like Wonderland must have appeared to Alice after she catapulted down the rabbit hole, the Carolina community springs from the dusty earth just when you think you’ve gone as far as possible into the heart of Mississippi before coming out on the other side.

The only street in Carolina is the road that has wound like a coiled spring through family farms for generations. In lieu of street lights, a million technicolor stars twinkle in the night sky like so many pinpricks of light. And you never feel God’s presence more than when you just look up. Taxis are not available or necessary, but four-wheelers and tractors are in abundant supply. And the fishing is superb.

A long-abandoned storefront, behind which most assuredly lurks the fragile, skeletal remains of a once vibrant social center, stands watch amid strangling privet hedge, thick honeysuckle vines and wasp nests. Dangling to the side of the old storefront, like a child clinging to his mother’s skirt, is the dilapidated remnant of the old barber shop—a one-room men’s club that was undoubtedly privy to countless tall tales and Carolina Road gossip. Unless you pay close attention, you’ll miss the few remaining clapboard farmhouses still anchored by wide front porches but flanked by thick undergrowth and saplings that are ever threatening to consume the houses whole. The sad remains of the once spic and span homeplaces scarcely suggest the family life and community spirit that permeated every stop along Carolina Road in the early part of the 20^th century. But newer families, and more than a few descendants of those first founders, continue to call Carolina home, albeit in tidy brick homes or double‑wides.

A new red brick church occupies the original location of the log church that was preceded by the brush arbor back in the early 1800s. Just recently the church stepped it up and installed an electronic sign that rotates the meeting time and a scripture verse of the week. The attached sandy cemetery is kept brushed clean and once each year the church hosts a Memorial Day to help with the cemetery upkeep. Many of the first parishioners are buried beside the church, and so the cycle continues.

What was once the four-room schoolhouse is now the Carolina Community Center, a hopping place on the Saturday nights set aside for such events as the RCDC Hoedown or the UMC Chili Cookoff. That same school began my dad’s education more than a few decades ago. One of the most valuable lessons he learned during his tenure there was not to stuff the new Roy Rogers gloves that Santa brought you in the back pocket of your britches when you visit the outhouse. He still doesn’t like to think about that day. And one of the most valuable lessons his little brother learned was not to agitate the much larger kid with only one name. Street’s parents never gave him a legal name or birth certificate, figuring if there was no record of his birth he wouldn’t be drafted later in life. While that might have helped in the military service avoidance department, it probably didn’t do much for his future employment or Social Security disbursements. As it turns out, giving a child no name may be a bit short-sighted. And it might help make a kid meaner than he needs to be. A lot of lessons learned in that school didn’t come from a book.

It’s probably safe to say that Carolina will never outgrow its roots or its current geographical boundaries. In fact, its geography has scarcely changed at all since 1840 except that new brick homes now occupy original homesteads where family cabins once stood. Four-wheelers stir up dust along ruts once traveled by horses and wagons, and the silence of old unoccupied homeplaces is deafening. Everybody knows everybody, or at least they know the family. When someone joins the community or marries into it, others need to know who they are. But they don’t really want to know who THEY are; they want to know who their mama is.

For those of us who call the South home, we can name scads of communities just like Carolina, populated for the most part by the remnants of families who never traveled more than a few miles in any direction from the family front porch. They are a proud lot, with a heritage documented by a progression of headstones in family and community cemeteries. When the world was less mobile, and communication was carried out in person or not at all, those little wide spaces in the road seemed a lot larger. It took a bit more time to travel from one end to the other, and there was reason to stop along the way.

(Contributed by Alli)

Life doesn’t come with a manual. It comes with a mother.

My mother is quiet, warm, thoughtful, intelligent, and articulate with a vast reservoir of big words. I like all those qualities except the last one because she can insult me using large words and I’ll just say “thank you.” She can bake the best biscuits. Ask her about her recipe and you’ll soon realize that a perfect biscuit is all about how the dough “feels.” One day I’ll have enough time to figure out exactly how to listen to the dough, but, I’m in graduate school right now so Pillsbury frozen biscuits practically sing the Hallelujah chorus (sorry, Mom).

Oh, my mother loves a good turtleneck sweater. Maybe it’s because her neck is long and swan-like. Maybe it’s because she was too lazy to blend her foundation into her neck so the turtleneck hides the fact that her neck might be a shade or two lighter than her complexion. Who knows. She tried to force her love of turtlenecks on me as a child before I decided that they made me look like a human snapping turtle.

Ask anyone that knows both of us well and they’ll likely tell you that she and I are opposite on basically everything. I’m a talker; I’m a bit of a bulldog (both as proud Mississippi State alum and someone who likes to run over anything that opposes me); I probably take too much glee in arguing for the heck of it, and I am unafraid to be blunt no matter the situation. I think one of my personal philosophies would be “The truth will set you free, but don’t get mad when it hurts your feelings in the process.” However, I did get my mom’s good teeth. I’m 25, only have one cavity, and I definitely don’t floss enough, but thanks to those dental genes, I’m covered.

All my life my mother has repeated a certain phrase, “If you get in a hurry, you get behind.” She has repeated it until I never want to hear it again. She tells her freshman college students that. She told her senior citizen computer classes that. She’s probably told the check-out person at Walmart that at least once. I don’t like the phrase if you can’t tell, but just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean that it’s wrong.

I will now share a brief example that happened to me today. I was cooking dinner in my apartment and the recipe called for fresh garlic. I don’t like messing with fresh garlic, so I got the already minced garlic in the jars to make my life easier and to somewhat maintain the integrity of the recipe. Things got to moving quickly from browning the beef to adding the tomatoes to realizing I forgot some spice to prying open a can of Diet Coke because the pop tab had broken. Yes, I realize Diet Coke had nothing to do with the recipe, and trying to open one while all the other things were happening was totally avoidable, but I’m Southern, leave me alone.

Regardless, I picked up the jar of minced garlic and promptly dropped it which sent a spew of minced garlic all over my kitchen floor. One cannot possibly fathom how many tiny pieces of garlic come inside one jar until the little specks cover a dark brown wood floor. While the sheer area that the garlic pieces covered was problematic, the smell was worse. I live in an apartment, there’s not much room for that stench to go. I surveyed my mess for a second and I’ll be darned if that phrase didn’t pop into my head, “If you get in a hurry, you get behind”. I cleaned up the garlic, lit two candles, “Febreezed” my whole apartment, and then I called my Mom just to tell her she was right.

I am not sure what the point of this rambling is except maybe to highlight the fact that mothers are normally right. They are typically right about how long to cook something or which cleaner to use to get that stubborn stain off the couch. They’re right when they tell you to send handwritten thank you cards and when they tell you to floss your teeth. They’re so right all the time, you can probably call yours from a Walmart in Oklahoma and ask where the picante sauce is and she’ll be able to point you in the right direction. However, be wary if they start to push their love of turtlenecks on you, that’s something that’s never right.

I believe in a lot of things and I think I’m pretty sure of others.

I believe that most people are decent if given the chance and that most of us just want to be the best that we can be.

I believe that we live in the best nation on earth and have more opportunity than we deserve but that we squander most of it.

I believe that we all have dreams and talents and gifts but that we too often limit ourselves and don’t act on many of them.

I believe we could learn a lot from animals and just live for today. But we should also just be thankful for today.

I believe we should believe in one another.

And I believe I don’t know it all.

What I do know is that we’re much too quick to limit both ourselves and those we meet. We tuck people in neat little boxes that we’re comfortable with and then declare that we know them. Or we brush by them because we’re too busy to stop. It makes relationships easy and keeps us in charge. And we miss so much along the way…

So I slowed down this week and really watched for people who crossed my path who were pretty special and worth believing in. And here’s what I found.

I believe in James.

Having worked at Kroger for as long as I’ve been shopping there, James is apparently a career bagger and aisle stocker and buggy man. He has such a sweet disposition, but it literally took years before I heard him say a word. I think there’s a bit of magic involved because he usually pops out of nowhere to silently help load the groceries in the car. Then he is gone with the buggy as quickly as he came. I don’t know anything about his background or off-duty life, but I do know he is one of Kroger’s best. He knows his job and he does it and he’s dependable. He is so unassuming, though, that it’s easy to overlook him. It’s far too tempting to label him as a bit slow and uninteresting. He can fade into the woodwork and you won’t even miss him.

But since we now carry on a limited conversation, I asked if he was keeping warm on one recent snowy day of loading groceries. “Oh, yes,” he answered. “When you have God in your heart, you’re never that cold.” And he actually smiled. Wow. In one sentence, he was out of the box I had put him in. And then he took the buggy back to the store. And my day was better. Even if he never leaves Kroger, I know he’ll go far.

I believe in Elsa.

Elsa is a waitress at a local Mexican restaurant. She’s been in this country for 15 years, having come with her dad from Mexico City when she was 11. She never knew her mother, and her dad left her soon after she got here. She was labeled as slow in her studies because she hadn’t mastered English. Most thought of her as just another immigrant who would probably get into legal trouble before not graduating from high school. She did graduate, though, and began studying to be a dental hygienist but had little encouragement so she quit. The only job she could find was as a waitress, but she’s giving it her all. Still, she knows there is more.

We started the conversation because we liked her accent, but we finished it only after talking about college scholarships and encouraging her to pursue a law degree because she really wanted to help others, especially immigrants like herself. Her dark eyes lit up when she thought about a different future; she firmly believes God sent us her way as encouragement. I don’t know about that, but I’m willing to be used in that way if necessary. We inspired her and she inspired us that night.

I believe in Ms. Carolyn.

I met her about 10 years ago when my family began attending a small rural church in Morgan County. Attendance is small on most Sundays, and the future of the church is uncertain, but one thing is for sure—Ms. Carolyn will see it through, come hell or high water, for as long as she is able. She is genuinely committed to teaching her Sunday School class and occupying the same pew each Sunday. She is concerned that enough hymnals are placed in the trays behind each pew and that visitor cards are readily available. She is the Southern matriarch and staunch pillar of the United Methodist Women in her community. Ms. Carolyn is made of steel, powered by prayer, and totally unpredictable. I recently arrived to pick her up for an event we were both attending. She scurried to the car, reminding me of an eager squirrel, with a neat gray sweater draped over her arm “in case it’s chilly in there.” As soon as she was seated in the car, she leaned forward, patted the dashboard and said “Bless this car and those who are in it.” She is never short of words or wisdom.

You would never know that she has a master’s degree in counseling. You would also never imagine that when she was about 20, she left a note on her mother’s kitchen table and took the next bus west to California—alone. There, she met and married an immigrant from Armenia who owned a clothing store, parented five children with her, cherished her, and then died much too early. She sold the store, made her way back to Alabama, nursed her dying mother, and returned to the church and to the lifestyle she had left so many years before. Beneath those permed gray curls, Ms. Carolyn is resilient and adventurous and spunky and a powerhouse. And she has come full circle, but what a ride.

Believing in yourself is relatively easy. Believing in and appreciating others for what they stand for and for what they can teach you is not so easy. The one thing I know is that you’re sure to be surprised and will never be bored if you just get out of your box and let them get out of theirs.

One thing I’m certain of is that I believe in the power of believing in others.

I don’t hope you dance. I hope you stumble. Sure, whenever one door closes, I hope another opens and I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance. And that you never settle for the path of least resistance, and so the song goes. Actually, I don’t mind if you dance. But most of all, I hope you stumble.

I hope your best laid plans are just not enough. I hope you work tirelessly for an outcome that you’re sure is exactly what you’re meant to do, but that in the end you never get there. I hope your sights are just not high enough and I hope you experience at least one disappointing day when nothing goes as you want it to.

And then I hope you stumble. I hope you stumble right into what you never dreamed possible. I hope your best laid plans pale in comparison to what is to be. I hope the hugely disappointing day that you think just can’t get any worse is just the ending of one mediocre dream so you can fall headlong into one that is much larger and brighter. And one that you never thought you were deserving of. I hope you stumble right into what God had planned for you all along.

Don’t misunderstand. I believe in planning and preparation. And I firmly believe in hope. I just think that too often we take the wheel and, with tunnel vision, hurtle headfirst into “the plan.” It’s incredibly important to have a plan and even more important to do whatever is necessary to get where you think you want to be, but you should also be prepared to deviate. Get some peripheral vision and invite some flexibility. Maybe just a little bit and maybe a lot.

Not to get too philosophical, but I think you have to believe in more than fate. Even with the best laid blueprint for life, I know that what some would call luck has to be involved. Actually, I used to call it luck, but now I know it’s a little bit of fate and a whole lot of divine intervention. “Leaving it to chance” is just not an option when a higher power is involved, as I’m certain there is. So find your touchpoint and let go. It’s not all up to you.

But do make those plans. You have to start somewhere. And find that passion. And chase that career or diploma or potential mate. But don’t ever underestimate yourself and settle for less than you should. If you do have a passion, give it your all. If you don’t have a passion, find one. Plan your future but don’t be afraid to detour. Your biggest adventure could be right off the road you so painstakingly paved. If you don’t have any direction at all, recalibrate. Still, I hope you stumble.

And I hope I’m asked to give a commencement address because I’m feeling like I just made a real good start and could fill in the rest pretty quickly.

Stumbling is a good thing. I don’t know why we’re so afraid of stumbling blocks. It could be that a stumbling block actually interrupts that breakneck pace you’ve set for yourself as you chase your future. You plan it all out and you prepare for it and you hope for a bit of luck or intervention. And it becomes you. And you’re sure of it. And then you crash. But as you’re dusting yourself off, you find the shiny thing on the ground that’s worth a bazillion bucks that you would have flown right by if left to your own devices.

Or it could be that you really don’t have much direction at all. You’re just bumping around aimlessly or semi-aimlessly looking for a good fit. Looking for something that you love but just not finding it. What you’ve tried hasn’t worked all that well, and you really don’t have a next move. Then I hope you stumble.

I hope you stumble just as I did when I graduated from college and began to look for employment. The idea that I might teach in a college setting never crossed my mind, although both my parents had done so. On a lark, I interviewed at a local community college before which I never even knew community colleges existed. I felt pretty certain that I’d be offered the job but I told my dad I really didn’t think I wanted it. He came closer than he ever has, I think, to being convinced I was a complete idiot. Of course, I came around and accepted the position. In part, it might have been that I didn’t have any other offers, but it scares me silly to think of what I would have missed if I had just said no. Idiot that I was, I just stumbled into a fulfilling career that I wasn’t even looking for. God looks out for fools and babies and apparently also for me.

So on that day when you fail the test or lose your footing or find that your train left the rails, you might just stop and ask for a new direction, or at least for renewed energy and confirmation that the plan is still in place. And don’t be afraid to ask for more. Ask for more than you can even imagine because your best guess might just be the start of what is to come.

Whatever you do, I hope you stumble.