I have a box. My husband swears the box is expandable, accommodating absolutely anything I want to put in it. Every woman should have a box just like mine, and most do. Some items in the box are much more useful than others, although all are important to me and well worth keeping. I have no doubt that most will come in handy someday, so I’m sure I’ll keep them forever. No one can open the box but me, and it doesn’t even have a key.

I don’t often open the box, but when I need to I’m not shy about it. Then, I can put my head down and riffle among the contents, selecting just the right item for the occasion. Not long ago, I gently and by mistake backed into a pole that sprung from nowhere in the parking lot of the cleaners. No harm done, but my husband knew better than to suggest any error on my part, as he knew that in my box I had record of the time he left the loose gooseneck trailer hitch down in the bed of the pickup truck and then drove away—without first lowering the truck tailgate. That V’d tailgate rode with us for a while before he finally visited a body shop. And that item is the absolute prize in my box. Because my box is G-rated, though, I didn’t include the language he used when the truck jerked to a halt hanging on the trailer hitch. Nothing can top that prize egg in the box.

And any traffic ticket I get, which is of course none, can’t compare to those few that he owns that are also housed in my box. So I have license for at least a couple of traffic stops, should they ever occur.

I’m also free to forget to pay the utility bill and it’s perfectly OK to let the car go too long between oil changes. Oh, and those pesky birthdays and anniversaries come around so often that it’s OK to miss a few.

And just when I was beginning to think my box contents were getting a bit low, he found himself late for an appointment and backed directly into a farm gate, V’ing the same new tailgate, but in the opposite direction. He’s still wondering how on earth that gate just jumped right out there at the exact same moment he was backing up. And into my box it goes.

I know I’m not the only one in the family with a box, though, so I’m pretty cautious with digging around in mine. I suspect I’ve given ample opportunity for others to include me in their boxes so I’m respectful and aware. And precisely because I know I’m so error prone, I’m extra careful to collect all I can because I’m sure to need it often. You can never be too careful or too prepared.

I may have a box, but my husband has a book. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been talking about his book. I’d really love to see the book but have yet to be allowed. What I know is that it must be huge, given all the information it includes. “Well, in my book, that’s just ridiculous,” he’ll vow.  Or, “In my book, he should be the only one running for office,” he’ll say of his candidate of choice. And on and on. I suspect I’m somewhere in that book, but I’m sure I’ll never see it and I’m not even sure of where he keeps it. It’s probably in the same closet as my box.

Before I give the wrong impression, you should know that my box is not just a holder of “gotchas.” It’s open entry to everything worth recording. It holds the night about 25 years ago when I was an apartment dweller and on my way home one snowy evening. Finding myself stranded in a church parking lot, my now-husband made the 10-mile trek to pull my little mustang out of the ice with his ever present 4-wheel drive truck.

And all of those beautifully penned Valentine’s Day cards and birthday remembrances are definitely secure in my box, along with the daily “just checking on you” texts and calls. See, my box is equal opportunity, with just as many gold nuggets as lumps of coal.

My box also houses the reminder of the multiple times I’ve locked myself out of the house, being rescued by a spouse or daughter with the good grace to never mention it again or to suggest the wisdom of hiding a spare key somewhere. Who has time for that?

And then there’s the time I let the car run out of gas. Well, it really wasn’t my fault as the gas gauge was faulty. Never mind that I could have kept up with miles driven since the most recent fill-up. And yes, I’m sure that’s filed away in someone else’s box, along with the second time I did the very same thing. And that’s why I use my box sparingly. I’m fully aware that what goes around comes around.

But being well armed, so to speak, is never a bad idea. Sort of like the gun control debate, I’ll only give up my defense if everyone else gives up theirs.

And I’m thinking of starting a book. I just don’t know if I have enough good ideas to record in it and I don’t think I’m quite well grounded enough in my convictions to word them well and to stand by them. And anyway, I really do think a box is much more useful if it’s well stocked. I’m definitely like a squirrel storing away nuts. I grab whatever I can find, as everything could be useful under the right circumstances. But I know I’ll never drive a pickup truck. We really can’t afford another tailgate.

I pass a very old and very decrepit barn on the way home from work each day. The barn should have been torn down long ago, but apparently the barn owner was offered funding to keep the barn standing. The only requirement was that he allow YellaWood to paint Shoulda Used YellaWood on what was left standing of the barn. So now the tilting, half-rotten building sports those bright letters across the roof, and we’re all delighted. That company understands completely the allure of signs in the South. We love cutesy sayings on our buildings, on our cars, in our yards, and on our church signs. And we love to name things. Even now, you can still find a few See Rock City signs on barns and buildings between wherever you are and Chattanooga. That’s a complete subculture in itself that would take too long to explore, but it’s there.

Car decals are a whole ‘nother thing. Moms in minivans proudly number their growing collection of kids and pets in little addable stick-people decals, usually in the lower left corner of the rear window. Single guys and young dads in pickup trucks are partial to Browning or Ruger emblems. They might let you know that their truck is protected by Smith and Wesson, or that this ain’t their first rodeo. If the truck belongs to a girl or if the guy has a wife or girlfriend in tow, the Ruger decal might be pink, or maybe you’re told that country girls don’t retreat, they just reload.

As you get older and maybe a bit softer or more gracious, you might change the decal to a simple Blessed in cursive black-and-white script. That’s especially appropriate on a newer model car driven by a middle-aged woman with not a whole lot of responsibility. If you’re lucky enough to be paying tuition to a university, you could tell everybody that your child and your money goes to “insert school here.” The underlying message there is that your child is very smart and you’re established enough to afford higher education. If you make it to the grandparent phase, you’re probably going to want the Grandkids Make Life Grand model.

And if you have any allegiance to either of the two Alabama flagships, you’re definitely going to want to tell the world. For the Bama fan, that means you absolutely have to include a big red A somewhere on your car/yard/Christmas décor, preferably with a filling of black-and-white houndstooth—or for the yard model, with lights around the edges. As a bonus, that lighted yard model looks great at Christmas next to the plastic manger scene. As an Auburn fan, you’ll want to head right over and buy one of those tiger tails that you can attach to your trunk so your car looks like it’s sprouted a tail and the interstate knows you’re headed to the Auburn game. On game days, there’s just no choice; you have to clip a school flag to your car window so it flutters all the way to your destination while nobody questions your loyalty along the way.

Yard flags for each of the largest universities are in abundance everywhere. A friend who moved to Alabama from Chicago was incredulous at the number of Alabama graduates; that is, until she realized that there is not necessarily any correlation between flag ownership and a university degree, or even a suggestion that the flag owner darkened the doorway of said school. That reminds me of a joke that I’ll always remember about the difference between an Alabama fan and an Auburn fan, each wearing a university sweatshirt. The Alabama fan had just been to Wal-Mart whereas the Auburn fan had most likely paid at least a bit of Auburn tuition.

Even, or maybe especially, churches are not immune to the need for signage. A sign not only identifies the church, but it needs to grab attention with a catchy phrase. CH__CH, What’s Missing? U R. is a classic, if a bit overused, play on words. Or how cute is Seven Days Without Prayer Makes One Weak? Proper spelling is apparently not a requirement, as evidenced by the sign in front of the Calvary Assembly, Get Behind Me, Satin. But I think the prize goes to Round Top Community Church for Do You Know What Hell Is? Come Hear Our Preacher.

I love the creativity behind hair salon names. My first haircut was at Betty’s Beauty Shop; apparently Betty wasn’t her most creative in the naming department. I think she was a lot better at doing hair. In the decades since then, hair stylists have really upped the game. My personal favorite is Curl Up and Dye, followed at close second by Make Me Over Jesus Salon and Day Spa. There’s just a whole lot you can do with salon names, as the list is long. Hairport, Shear Delight, Prime Kutz, and Hairs to You could win awards in any hair salon naming competition. Any establishment that uses a K where a C should go and a Z instead of an S is going to be a hit. And if you add Shoppe to the end, it’s over the top. I think Prime Kutz Beauty Shoppe would just put all others to shame.

Wording and naming things is really important because it identifies who we are. We can be funny or serious. You can pick up the St’ Patrick’s Day shirt at Target proclaiming Irish You Were Beer or you can clarify your political views with the We Can’t All Be Liberals; Some of Us Have to Work bumper sticker. The cornier the better and the more likely it is to draw a smile, the more likely it is that we’ll buy whatever it is.

And sometimes you just need to make a statement without making a statement. For my Mississippi State alum daughter, I’m getting the Mississippi Y’all bumper sticker. It’s perfect and she’ll love it. And it says absolutely nothing.

(Contributed by Alli)

I like food. Wait, nope, I love food. Is Zaxby’s considered a love language? I’m asking for a friend, of course. I think I can make a strong case that while food may not be considered a formal love language that the popular “5 Love Languages” book talks about, it can be classified a language of love. Hear me out and I think you’ll agree.

It’s a hot and humid summer day in Alabama and I think I was probably 8 or 9 at the time. Mind you, in Alabama it gets hot enough to make the devil himself throw up his hands in surrender to the heavy air. The only thing that moves faster than cold molasses during the summer months are the mosquitoes.

I remember helping my Dad do farm things and we took a break to go to the store, a break that was always welcome because five minutes breathing inside an air-conditioned building was better than none. Back then I would always get a Coke and Golden Flake Dill Pickle flavored chips. It was the best nourishment to a tired kid. To this day I can’t taste dill pickle flavoring and not think of jumping into my Dad’s red Chevrolet 2500 diesel truck and hearing him say “just sit on top of everything” as I climbed in the passenger seat to go get that middle-of-the-day snack.

Not much has changed, except sometimes I pay for the snacks now, and my palate has switched to Diet Coke and granola bars. But every now and then I’ll spring for the dill pickle chips just because. See, my Dad taking me to the store to get chips and a Coke is a form of love (and potentially creating an addiction to Coca-Cola products), and I sometimes think that it meant more than saying “I love you”; then again, I’m not a mushy person.

Moving forward about ten years, I find myself in college in the same town where my grandparents live. Some college freshman would view that as a negative. Au Contraire, my ignorant counterparts. I have two words for you: Free. Food.

Some weeknights I would stay with them and breakfast was always my favorite because I would wake up and hear the news channel that my grandad was watching along with the clanging of dishes in the sink. My breakfast of choice was toast and jelly. It sounds simple, I know, but it’s not.

First, the bread my grandmother, Mimi, always bought was Sunbeam. Sunbeam is the top-of-the-line, the crème de la crème of the bread aisle in Big Star or Piggly Wiggly.

Second, Mimi had a toaster oven, not a simple toaster. This ensured that the bread was perfectly dark golden on both sides, not too toasted at the bottom, like the kind traditional toasters produce.

Third, Mimi had the Country Crock spreadable butter. If you are the toast connoisseur that I claim to be, you know that regular butter causes the toast to rip–such a rookie move.

Fourth and finally, Mimi’s apple jelly was homemade. She would always have the bread bag opened on the counter by the toaster oven with the tray set out. Next to the bread was the butter spread and the jar (likely an old glass mayonnaise jar from the 1970’s) of that glorious light golden yellow jelly. I’m serious, If I were on death row, that would be my final meal.

But once again, that was a way she showed love, by setting my favorite things out so that I could have my favorite breakfast before I started my day. I don’t know if I ever told her how much I appreciated that small effort, but I sure hope I did. If I didn’t, this is me doing so now. God bless her apple jelly.

My other grandmother, whom we called “Mama Hennie”, much to her dismay because she really wanted us to call her “Mama Helen” but that just never quite stuck, loved to make cakes for Easter, and Christmas, and any random Saturday. They weren’t “from scratch” but that’s okay, because sometimes you just can’t beat a Duncan Hines white cake mix cake. Here’s the thing though, we never left them white. Her cakes were three layers with each layer being a different neon color. She fostered my creativity because she would also provide jelly beans or chocolate candies or sprinkles to decorate the cake with after we covered it in canned frosting (neon colored, of course). Those cakes were sure not pretty, but they were fun. Once again, love was shown by allowing a 7-year-old to go on a baking rampage. I make fun of those cakes now, but I am proud of them, and I am proud of that memory.

I could keep going. From eating beignets with my Mama in Fairhope, to getting Mexican food after church with my sister, to getting Zaxby’s with my boyfriend every Monday, food is a language of love. When you cook or bake for someone you are specifically taking time to do something nice for someone you care about. Even if it’s just a restaurant meal, you are choosing to spend time with that person; after all, time is love too. And in the South, our food normally takes a while to cook or bake (examples include barbeque or a pound cake), so you’re really killing two birds with one stone, spending time with the person and actually feeding them.

Do you get it now? Food is not only nourishment for your physical body, it’s another way to say “I care about you.” And showing that care for friends and family is something that we all could do a little more of.

We buried my Uncle Wayne today. Fittingly, his burial, and that of his wife—Aunt Mavis—was in the Conwill-Goodwin cemetery which is located about ¼ mile from the place Uncle Wayne and Aunt Mavis have called home for decades. The cemetery is entered through an ages-old wrought iron arch, announcing the family ownership, and is sheltered by ancient cedar and oak trees underneath which multiple family graves are marked. Tombstones in the cemetery spell the progression of family lives and loves that were lived out on the surrounding land. Husbands and wives are buried alongside infant or young children that fell to accidents or childhood illnesses. First names on various markers suggest favorite relatives, and shared history, as the same name might appear multiple times. Nephews are named for doting uncles, and sons carry on the names of their fathers. The obvious intertwining of families and existences that drew life from shared labor and homebuilding are well defined by those families documented amid weather-worn granite markers in the sandy cemetery. In mute testimony, those tombstones paint a picture of the Old South, replete with families that share the same ground in death that they did in life.

The Conwill family has called Carolina home since the early 1800’s when the first settlers to occupy the former Indian land arrived from Newberry, South Carolina. Among those settlers were Joseph and Mary Conwill, who brought with them untold dreams and most assuredly unfathomable faith in themselves and their Creator. They cleared land along the Boguefula Creek and laid claim to hundreds of acres of virgin forest that would prove to be fertile soil for raising both crops and families. Joseph’s son, John Peter married and raised a family, including a son named Presley Bailey, who in turn married and raised a family. His second-born son, Wayne, lived and died within a ½-mile radius of the original Conwill home, raising a family of his own and cherishing beyond measure the deeply felt place of belonging he knew in Northeast Mississippi and in the Carolina community. In that respect, he is not unlike many Southerners, who draw a sense of self and history from community.

Native Southerners tend to put down deep tap roots. Although we may wander and relocate for work or other obligations, the sense of place, the sense of belonging to a particular group of people, the pride in ownership of a story, is rock solid. In fact, knowing that we can hearken back to a time and a family who spent a lifetime carving out its own story, is very much a point of identity and an anchor for us. Such was the case for Uncle Wayne and his entire family, even those of us who found ourselves at a distance from Carolina. It is from that place that my father, Wayne’s brother, grew and was encouraged to make the most of himself that he could, even if it meant leaving the family home. For what he knew, or came to understand, is that although we leave home, we actually never do, as it is from that point that we draw our heritage and take our strength. And it is to that point, that we often return for sustenance, if only in our mental travels.

As the funeral procession crossed the Tombigbee River, late on that wintry day, the sun setting over the muddy water cast all measure of orange and yellow and lilac hues across the sky. The heartbroken daughters who had lost both parents in one weekend, surely took comfort in God’s portrait of light and new beginning, even in the darkening day. Continuing down Carolina Road, the two hearses passed the family home, the house where Uncle Wayne and all of his siblings had been born and the house where his father had died. The yard where he had spent countless hours racing and playing and wreaking havoc as the baby boy, and the same yard from which a speeding car had ferried him in its backseat to a hospital after the tractor accident that had left him partially paralyzed for life. The front porch on which the entire family had whiled away many Sunday afternoons, laughing and playing and napping. But on this day, the house and the yard and the front porch were deserted, having yielded life to the beginning of so many others in so many places. About 100 yards from the house, we passed the Conwill Brothers Store—Carolina’s social center at one time– and the place where a much younger Uncle Wayne one day had gleefully hidden behind the gas pump as he worked the lever to continue pumping gas into a car, fooling the unsuspecting customer and drawing the ire of the store’s manager, his Uncle Clay. He had made countless dashes down the dusty path connecting his home with the store, a happy young boy sheltered in a loving community.

Finally, the procession wound through the driveway of the home he had shared with Aunt Mavis for almost their entire 55-year marriage, giving a somber nod to its absent owners as they were carried to a final resting place. The waiting cemetery, a few hundred yards down a tree-shaded drive from Uncle Wayne’s house, is beautiful in its serenity and grace. It doesn’t need well-manicured grounds or spotless markers to testify to its dignity. The deepening shadows of the day, and the protective closeness of the wooded area surrounding the little gated clearing, gave comfort to those who had gathered to say goodbye, proving an apt reflection of the lives being celebrated. Even the thick carpeting of brittle brown oak leaves that chattered loudly, but grudgingly gave way to the footsteps of a grieving family was appropriate for the day on which we remembered a family so closely tied to its history and the very earth from which it had sprung.

You can’t create a sense of place. You can’t go without an anchor for a lifetime and then amazingly locate one. Generations of shared experiences, common goals, family ties, and cherished history combine to create a unified family group that occupies a single place at a single time, no matter how widespread geographically that place actually is. We can point to a common point of origin on the map and take pride in our family ownership of that place, but the fact is that although family might have originated there, its real treasure is the continued closeness and shared support of the generations that follow the first homestead. Our roots run deep. We are Southerners and we are family.

“What’ll it be, darlin’?,” the woman behind the counter of Pop’s Barbecue asks my daughter, who has stopped by for a quick lunch. The barbecue place is a staple of the St. Florian community, frequented especially at lunch by working men, those who come in wearing oil-stained work pants and matching company shirts. Having taken Jenn’s order, she turns to other guests, and you can’t help but notice the Jesus, BBQ, Sweet Tea logo on the back of her bright blue t-shirt. That pretty much sums up the philosophy of most small communities south of Kentucky. And really, what else do you need?

As Jenn finishes lunch and pays her bill, the cashier smiles broadly and says, “Now don’t forget to go slow!” reminding her that the St. Florian speed limit has just been dropped to 25 mph and people are “getting stopped all the time out there.” Returning to an afternoon of harried paperwork and phone calls and aggravating deadlines, my oldest daughter reflects on the flashpoint of knowledge gained at a simple, forgettable, barbecue joint on a roadside in Alabama—“Now don’t forget to go slow!”

Scads of writings and songs and movies have been designed around the idea of enjoying life at a slower pace, of not letting moments escape us, of meditating and breathing in certain ways, of the value of yoga and decompression therapy, and on and on. A popular country song from a few years ago laments, “I’m in a hurry to get things done, Oh I rush and rush until life’s no fun.” An Andy Griffith episode centers around the quest to “just slow down” on a Sunday afternoon but ends up with everyone working so hard to just slow down that they’re exhausted.

We all know what we should do, but it’s just so much effort to stop doing stuff sometimes. I’m quite sure there’s an app for that, by the way. I don’t know how educated the lady behind the lunch counter at Pop’s is, but she taught a graduate student a valuable lesson that day in just one sentence without even knowing it. Even though we in the South are accused of being slow in speech and action, the truth is that we’re often just as hurried and harried as mid-town Manhattaners. We’re just a lot more gracious about it.

There are exceptions, though. Here in the South we do know how to slow down when the mood hits us. Last night, my husband and I went to Florence for a first-of-the-month downtown street festival with music and crafts and all the things that small Southern towns are known to celebrate. On one blocked off street, an excellent band was set up on a makeshift stage, playing their heart out to people seated in lawn chairs emblazoned with school logos and equipped with cup holders to minimize the effort required to enjoy both liquid refreshment and musical entertainment at the same time.

A local celebrity of sorts, known by all on a first-name basis only, frequents the festival, dressed much like a leftover Village People guy in a hard hat and jumpsuit in the local university colors. I don’t know his background or where he lives or anything else about him. But I do know that he WILL be dancing with the band on that street each month, enjoying nothing but the moment. His smile is constant. He is in no hurry. On the same street, dancing to the same band, is a small girl in a twirly dress that she’s pretty proud of, with a neon green glow-stick necklace that she spins as she dances with sheer abandon, taking a bow at the end of the number as if the subsequent applause is absolutely meant for her.

 Whatever stresses, whatever challenges, whatever disenchantments of the day, are set aside for those few moments of shared enjoyment in a small Southern town.

Southerners are sometimes accused of being too incredibly slow. Under the breath, we might even be assumed to be a bit limited in thought and intelligence. Maybe it’s the weather, the heavy blanket of humidity that permeates most seasons and makes it difficult to breathe or move quickly. Or maybe it’s the ingrained sense of community and caring for those who share it with you that makes us take a bit more time with others. You have to slow down for both of those, neither of which has anything to do with intelligence, thank you very much.

That same daughter from Pop’s Barbecue is spending the day today kayaking down a slow creek that meanders from its origin in Tennessee to its exit in the Tennessee River. Just fast enough to require little to no paddling, but slow enough to stretch the day spent among the turtles and leafy shade and crystal clear water, the creek has a “have-to-stop” lunch point with a gravelled beach and a short cliff that just begs the fearless to leap into the cooling waters below. You get nowhere fast in a kayak on Shoal Creek but you sure do enjoy the day. And even if you want to use a cell phone—even if you’re dying to check in to someone for something—you can’t because there’s no coverage that far off the path.

You know, we may not have tomorrow, but we do have today. For whatever reason, we’ve been blessed with one more day on this earth that we can spend in a harried rush and aggravation at the slowness of traffic, the inevitably of the missed deadline, the looming appointment that we’ve dreaded for some time, the sad current state of our financial affairs, or just a general disappointment in life, OR we can thank God for the gift of today.

We can join the crowd at Pop’s and enjoy a plate lunch. We can dance on the street if only in our imagination. We can drift down a backwoods creek, feeling the spray of cool water as the paddle makes contact. Just make sure you watch the speed limit on the way home.

At 18, I wanted to go to California. I dreamed of leaving the hard-packed Alabama clay and sweltering mosquito-riddled summer days for beach breezes and palm trees. The Christmas specials live from Malibu and the televised Rose Parade in sunny Southern California did little to convince me otherwise. I really wanted to go to California. It seemed brighter there, with sunbaked people, and bright lights, and flowered shirts. I believed at least a little of the myth that anywhere was better than here. The fact is, though, that I wasn’t quite as adventurous as I would have liked. I just never could get up the courage to make the leap—I never really took it that seriously, I think—and fortune dictated differently, anyway. Or maybe it goes deeper than that.

This land, this region, this culture is a siren song for those of us who have always called it home. For it is home in more ways than a simple mailing address. It is home in our heart and soul. It is who we are. It is in our bones. It is where we live and thrive and it is where we come from. It is where our people are. It is our past, present, and for most of us, it is our future. And it is good.

That’s not to say it’s all rose colored. Just like every other area, we have our share of hardship, natural disasters, poverty, crime, and unemployment. We have just as much reason to worry about national crises and are just as affected by global decisions, but we also know when to turn off the news and when to visit a neighbor, and who needs a hug or a casserole. We know tomorrow will dawn and we’ll have another chance to get it right. And we support each other along the way.

It is true that we labor under stereotypes that are mostly undeserved and unsupported, but in our grace, we shrug them off and remain thankful that others with that opinion stay in Buffalo or Indianapolis, believing us to be backward and uneducated. Traffic is bad enough as is, so the less the merrier. You know, I’ve never heard of anyone retiring North and try as I may, I can’t recall any phrase including the words “Northern cooking.” Think about that for a minute.

We can’t all claim generations of Southern tenancy, although it’s pretty special if you can, and many of us are quick to do so. Regardless, this land becomes yours when you begin to treasure it, no matter how long you’ve called it home. It inhabits you just as much as you inhabit it. It owns you and it is yours. The landscape, from the bucolic Mississippi Delta to the majestic Tennessee River; from the sandy southern beaches to the rolling Smoky Mountains; from a Savannah square, shaded with massive Live Oaks to the lights of Broadway in Nashville; this land is as graceful and as varied as its inhabitants.

This place we call home, pieced together with people and generations and places, is a work in progress, much like a quilt is pieced together. And I know what I would miss if I ever chose to leave. I’d miss the smell of the buttercups that my grandmother planted one rainy September evening, hopeful that her family would always enjoy them. We do. I’d miss front porches and screen doors and genuine smiles and Ms. Rhona’s jalapeno cornbread. I’d definitely remember how hot Mississippi can get in July and I’d laugh when I thought about those town names like Box Springs, Georgia and Chunky, Mississippi and Corner, Alabama. I’d actually miss the smell of a barn and the late summer sound of tree frogs and the first glimpse of a lightning bug in June. I’d never want to forget any of Mr. Long’s corny jokes, and I would definitely remember church suppers and cemetery decoration days. And much like a quilt, I’d miss the comfort and warmth of home.

So I guess that’s why I’ll never leave. California is a lot of miles away. I don’t know exactly how many, but more than a few is now a few too many. Actually, in terms of how long I’ll stay here, I’m certain of one thing. Forever’s as far as I’ll go.

For more than a few years, we’ve owned horses. Or in truth, they’ve owned us. Unlike some farms, we don’t trade around or sell our animals. When an animal walks into our barn, it’s for life. No matter how old they get, no matter how infirm, they give us joy and we return the favor by providing a bed and food bowl for as long as they choose to stay with us.

And that policy has dominoed into the need for an animal cemetery. For each animal we love and lose, we plant a rose bush. We have quite a few rose bushes now. Willy has the yellow rose, Duchess the crimson, Gus the coral, Buttons the miniature red, and on it goes. We’re running out of colors.

Our oldest cat has been with us for 13 years, supervising the other six and earning the title of foreman. And Fanny, the mare with attitude, is somewhere around 25 years old. In her former life, she competed as a show jumper, clearing just about any jump she was presented while keeping our youngest daughter aboard and safe. She shares quarters with Braveheart, the sawed-off quarter horse with no particular job except to eat and keep the others company. Blue, the roan looker, picked up Willy’s job of competing as a cutting horse. His actual occupation, though, seems to be to pull on or chew on anything within reach. And to poop in his water trough.

And they’re not cheap. Sort of like a home security system, they don’t cost much to buy but they’re heck to maintain. I can’t recall the last vet bill that wasn’t triple digit. And that’s when they’re well.

Fanny practically raised Alli, as we’ve owned her since Alli was 11. One thing I’ve learned is that there’s a world of difference between eventers and cowgirls. An eventer is a rider who prefers the long-legged thoroughbred type, including Friesians and Arabians, whereas cowgirls typically race around barrels or cut cows from the herd on Quarter horses.

Alli started out as an eventer. Or specifically a show jumper. I was especially pleased with that choice, as unlike cross country, those are the jumps that fall away when hit and that are arranged in a fenced arena. Cross country, on the other hand, is in an open field, with huge logs or stone fences or water ditches or SUVs to clear. Just the thing a mother lives to encourage.

So we bought Fanny, which led to the $1,000 saddle, which led to the $25,000 trailer, which led to the $50,000 pickup truck. Then throw in Ms. Mary’s riding lessons and the farrier bill and vet checkups. Give a mouse a cookie…

But I was told that owning a horse is the best way to teach all sorts of life skills, so we were all in. My daughter wouldn’t be hanging around the mall on Saturday night. No, she’d be at home shining her stirrups and mucking stalls and learning to identify hoof rot. It might not be the start of an incredible social life, but she would learn to appreciate hard work and caring for something besides herself. At least, that’s how Ms. Mary sold it.

And each June for several years, Ms. Mary’s barn family made the trip to the Kentucky Horse Park to compete at Rally, a Southeastern Pony Club competition that was spaced over several days. In the weeks leading up to Rally, we traveled many miles in our new horse trailer, ferrying Fanny and Alli to various locations to practice, practice, practice. Pony Club leaders take Rally competition very seriously. It’s the Southeastern Conference of the kids’ eventing world.

And there are RULES. I can’t even begin to outline them here as I’ve apparently forgotten most of them, but there are RULES. The one that I most remember is that the club tack trunk must be packed perfectly with absolutely NO expired liniment or rusty tools. And the trunk must be made of thousand-year-old red oak that weighs two tons. No Rubbermaid boxes for us.

With the well-packed trunk appropriately secured in some unlucky parent’s horse trailer, we caravanned to Lexington. Mothers were the primary supporting cast of Pony Club, which was a bit disconcerting given the general lack of varied trailering experience that we tended to have. Even with relatively small trailers, we still had Nashville to navigate.

Ms. Mary’s solution to that problem was to choose a lane, stay in it, and avoid all eye contact with other drivers. “They’ll move,” she assured us. “Just look confident and don’t give them a choice.” One of Pony Club’s cornerstones is confidence, best learned in Nashville rush hour.

Other drivers might have moved over for us, but the incredibly expensive white board fence at the Kentucky Horse Park didn’t dodge one mom’s too-short turn when she took out the corner of it. We couldn’t bear to stay for the subsequent negotiations with Horse Park staff so we left her to deal with her transgression alone.

To be fair, though, I’m also aware of a very well-seasoned cowboy who once removed much of the top half of an historic covered bridge in Blount County on his way to a trainer’s barn. Only when the sheriff showed up a while later did he notice the broken wood dangling from the corner of his trailer. I’m not sure how he settled that problem, but I’ll bet it was no easier than dealing with the Kentucky Horse Park management and probably just as costly.

And it wasn’t only moms in the fray during Rally days. Frank, a Pony Club dad who co-owned the local Coca Cola plant but didn’t own a pickup truck, volunteered one year to pull a loaded horse trailer behind his Lexus sedan to Kentucky. With his full cooler of Cokes beside him in the front seat and radio blaring, Frank blew past us at 80 mph along the Martha Layne Collins Parkway headed to Lexington, painfully oblivious to the fully loaded trailer of thousand pound animals he was pulling.

“Do you think I should have let Frank trailer Skip?” worried Skip’s owner Mandy as she watched the trailer zip past through blue smoke ahead of us. I didn’t have the heart to answer but I could see the doubt in her eyes. Pony Club parents aren’t always the most cautious or discerning. But Frank made it to Kentucky and Skip lived to compete another day.

I think we miss Pony Club more than Alli, who outgrew that competition several years ago. We parents bonded over folding chairs under the shade of Horse Park oaks or in pickup truck beds cradling paper cups of beer or ice-cold Cokes from Frank’s cooler. We cheered on our khaki-shorts-and-polo-shirted competitors during horse jog-outs and made sure they had lunches on time and equipment in place. It was for us as much an experience in caring for something besides yourself as we claimed we were giving our kids.

So, Fanny and our other horses and our seven cats and our three dogs all have a forever home with us. She’s retired now, but only after making a permanent mark in the history of our family and helping teach us all a few lessons. She’s ornery and opinionated and moody. And she’s the boss. And Alli still loves her and asks about her even though she’s now in Oklahoma and Fanny is on the farm in Alabama.

Loving and caring for something other than yourself—check.

We go there every summer, on the second Sunday in August, just to remember. It’s called Decoration Day, which I think sounds a bit flippant, but it is what it is and no one gives it a second thought. Some places call it Memorial Day, but here it’s Decoration Day. Amid the sea of bright new plastic flowers that adorn the graves, Aunt Nelda is buried, as is Aunt Hazel, Mama Bell, Papa, and a slew of other family members.

I remember most of them. Aunt Nelda died too young at 62, but not before she became my favorite aunt. She is the reason I overcame my fear of riding the Spider at the county fair when I was 9. She made anything possible. As the baby of the family, she was supposed to live a lot longer. And Mama Belle never stopped hoping to return to the hills of Carolina after she lost Papa and moved to the flatlands of Amory. So even if it was to the cemetery of the little Methodist church she attended most of her life, she did return. Of all the Conwill sisters, Aunt Hazel was probably the prettiest, inside and out, with deep blue eyes and the soft voice and gentle smile of a graceful Southern mother. I miss them all.

I’m pretty sure the hottest time and place on earth is in the middle of a cemetery in August in Mississippi. Especially a cemetery with few trees, covered in sand, and swept clean. And yet, on Decoration Day at Carolina United Methodist Church, those of us with relatives in that cemetery invariably make the pilgrimage. Hot or not hot, we’re going to show up. It’s what we do. People have been showing up here for Decoration Day for over 100 years, when those who are now buried in the cemetery were among the ones doing the remembering.

Under the green Pickle Funeral Home tent at the cemetery gate, Aunt Jimmie collects money for upkeep of the cemetery. An ages old oak tree shades the tent and her folding chair. It’s sort of like the cemetery equivalent of a movie theater ticket booth. She assures us that she’d rather stay out there in the shade rather than sit through the service, so we leave her to it.

My dad grew up on the family farm about ½ mile down Carolina Road, so he’s been a regular at Decoration Day since before he could walk. Now he’s among the oldest. According to him, the time was chosen because it was when the crops were laid by. That means the cotton was hoed clean but not yet ready for picking, so much of the farm work was at a standstill.

That was when the event took a whole day, with tables under shade trees groaning with the weight of meats, side dishes, cakes, pies, and jugs of tea, ready for the after-service crowd. A washtub filled with ice and lemonade, with a dipper nearby, satisfied many a kid who had worked up a thirst. Mamas in printed cotton dresses buzzed around the tables, shooing flies and organizing platters, while Liberty overall-clad men gathered in the shade to talk about whatever men talk about while they wait for dinner.

Uncle Alfred, who was actually nobody’s uncle, played Swing Low, Sweet Chariot on the old pump organ during the church service, masterfully coordinating the pedals and keys, while kids fidgeted and mamas corrected and late summer wasps, disturbed by the crowd, distracted everybody.

It’s pretty much the same today except there is no cotton resting in the fields, the place is thankfully air conditioned, bright plastic flowers adorn the cemetery instead of fresh blooms, and dinner on the ground is now dinner in the fellowship hall. The wasps have vacated, and Uncle Alfred is probably buried out in the cemetery. But except for that, it’s the same.

You never know who will deliver the message, but most often the topic is upbeat and assuring. This past year, though, a lifelong Carolina resident and semi-ordained pastor felt led by the Lord to let us know that as much as we would like to believe that everybody buried in that cemetery out there had found Heaven, the truth was that for some, the reverse was true. To save ourselves from a similar fate, while we still had time, we simply must repent on that day and follow him to Christ. He found a lot of ways to make the same point, even solo-singing a repentance hymn from the pulpit, before he finally, and reluctantly, released us. I felt a bit sorry that no one took up the invitation for salvation. He had worked so hard for it.

I very much wish he had taken a different tack, but the one thing I have no doubt about now is that Mississippi in August is actually not the hottest place ever.

For the past few years, a local family gospel group has provided the singing at the Decoration Day service. They could have stepped right out of my grandmother’s 1971 black-and-white TV set, with a world of talent and stacked hair. But don’t underestimate them. Saying that Mama is pretty good at playing the piano is like saying it’s just a little bit warm in hell. They harmonize like nobody’s business on I’ll Fly Away and Precious Lord Take My Hand. When you leave that service, you’re definitely in the mood to remember.

The day of thinking about and honoring those we’ve lost should be sad, I guess, but it’s a whole lot easier to celebrate life than to be angry at death. The shared roots we claim in that little cemetery are more than the names and sum of years on each tombstone. They are the touchpoints that make us family.

They are why we don’t rush off after the service, but instead gather at a local restaurant for Sunday buffet. The table is long and full of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren that Mama Belle would never believe still share the closeness of the little family that gathered around her kitchen table after a similar service at the same little church. And I think that’s a life or two well worth remembering.

The biscuit is the bread of life. If the South had a regional bread, it would definitely be the biscuit. Well, maybe that or cornbread. There are probably two camps—the cornbread camp and the biscuit camp. I’m definitely on the side of the biscuit. Among my earliest memories are waking up to the rhythm of a fork striking the side of the Pyrex mixing bowl as my mama stirred them up each morning. That was actually my alarm clock. I can still hear that in my sleep. My mama’s recipe involved shortening, self-rising flour, and milk. In fact, I can almost remember the measurements but I’m not sure enough to put them in writing and lead anyone astray with my faulty memory. What I wouldn’t give for one more morning with my mom and her biscuits.

It’s true that music conjures up memories. You can hear a song and immediately return to a particular place or feeling in your mind. The same can be said for food. It is simply not possible to think of biscuits without also seeing the plate of biscuits on the table along with the jar of homemade grape or apple jelly. Every morning before school I had three biscuits. Exactly three biscuits. No more and no less. That was to hold me through the lunch that I wouldn’t eat that almost always consisted of spongy yellow cornbread and whatever else Mrs. Quinby had on her mind. My fourth grade teacher, Miss Lewis, was concerned that I didn’t eat enough, but was quickly assured that I ate plenty of biscuits.

Mama was raised during the Depression, so she believed in stretching everything. She used shortening instead of butter, but always whole milk. She didn’t own a biscuit cutter, preferring the open end of a short drinking glass. Until I was much older, I didn’t know biscuits could be round. Hers always had a quarter moon looking edge on one side where she made the most of the dough before rerolling it. If biscuits were left over, they usually reappeared at supper that night, buttered and toasted in the oven. An after-school snack could consist of a cold biscuit with butter and a bit of sugar.

In the winter, we usually found a source for sorghum syrup, so the biscuits were dressed up with that instead of jelly for a while. My widowed grandmother stayed with us occasionally and I was pretty impressed with her artful dragging of a biscuit through a thick pool of sorghum syrup without ripping the biscuit apart. She must have had a lot of practice. And when you couple a sorghum biscuit with fried country ham, that is truly a meal to worship, which is usually what happened on Christmas morning. After Santa stopped by and we had gone through it all, Mama would disappear into the kitchen and soon you would hear the clanking of fork against Pyrex. No pancakes for us. They were reserved for rainy Sunday evening meals, never for breakfast—and certainly not for such a holiday as Christmas.

Just about the only time breakfast didn’t include biscuits was when we were leaving early for a vacation trip. Then, she would heat the store-bought cinnamon rolls with raisins and the thick icing that would flake off. It was only acceptable because it meant we’d soon be on the road to the beach. Anything would have tasted good at that point.

As I grew older and more cosmopolitan, my taste evolved to Pop Tarts or Frankenberry in the morning. It was what my friends ate. The same friends who also had Charles Chips delivered in the cannister to their front door and who drank Coke instead of milk at meals. So for a few years, I did with fewer biscuits and didn’t miss them much at all.

Then I found myself with my own kitchen and family and I wanted them to appreciate the biscuit art. So, although my mom’s recipe is the sentimental favorite, I settled on one that uses White Lilly flour and real butter. I worked to perfect the recipe and just when I thought it was as good as it gets, my kids would visit my mom and be wowed by her selection of frozen Pillsbury biscuits. By that point, she had left the shortening concoction behind and was enjoying the store-bought equivalent. She went through a short phase of using the “whomp” biscuits—those where you peel the wrapper and then use a spoon or countertop edge to spring the biscuits open before baking. But nothing quite compares to Pillsbury. Actually I think nothing quite compares to anything cooked in a grandmother’s kitchen, so I gave up on the competition and vowed not to get my feelings hurt. I was just so incredibly thankful for the grandmother I was able to share my children with.

If you ask them right now, they’d probably agree that having breakfast with Mimi is a favorite memory. For them, it might be the image of buttered toast coming out of the toaster oven, coupled with the jar of homemade grape or apple jelly on the table, but the memory is just as sweet as my recollection of the plate of biscuits on the little pine table in the kitchen. And the Pyrex bowl was robin’s egg blue.

Angels among us. Some people absolutely believe in angels. Others have their doubts. I belong to the first group. Maybe earlier in my life I would have insisted that they only reside in heaven, fluttering around the heavenly throne, but now I know better. I know better because I’ve met a few. And they’re not just people that we tend to call angels only because they’re so sweet and have just done us a huge favor. They’re angels because they are angels. Let me explain.

I’m not necessarily a Bible scholar but ingrained in my psyche is the picture of the angel waving the flaming sword back and forth at the entrance to the Garden of Eden, as in the background Adam and Eve trudge away, bent with sadness and banished to a life of sweat and tears and serpents. And no children’s Sunday School classroom is complete without the set of blue hardback Bible-story books that are sure to include glossy full-color pictures of angels draped in white silk with wide feathery wings, descending through the clouds. One of my favorite books from childhood is The Littlest Angel, a bittersweet story about an angel who was left behind by the angel pack after announcing Jesus’ birth. She had to grow up here on Earth without her wings, doing good deeds and learning to walk instead of fly. In the end, she got her wings back, picked up her harp, and wafted back to join the heavenly host. So it ended well, as should be the case for a fallen angel.

There is nothing particularly scary or comforting about angels; they are just God’s servants on loan to Earth for a short time to bring good news or a message of doom. They always have a purpose and it is never for long. And I certainly never expected to meet any. After all, angels don’t live here among us. Why would they? No, they live in Heaven.

At least that’s what I grew up believing. Then life gets a bit harder and the road has a few potholes, some bigger than others. Even then, those people who reach out to help might be called angels, but only in a figurative way. “She’s such an angel,” we tend to gush, after someone has gone out of her way to do one helpful thing or another, leaving the impression that angels are always in the wings (no pun intended) to lighten our load and that just having a few angelic qualities makes you an angel. And somehow that informality makes them less majestic and too ordinary. And far too familiar. For I believe that when an angel is charged to act on your behalf, you most often know it. And the surprising thing to me is that they don’t often come with wings. They inhabit people who under ordinary circumstances would never consider themselves angels.

The old man in the Alabama song who led the lost child home didn’t have wings. He just showed up when all hope was gone and disappeared just as quickly. A much younger me would have expected an angel to have a flowing robe and perfect wings, but I know a doctor who had to be an angel and he certainly couldn’t fly. What he did was hold my hand and talk me through a stressful pre-op procedure even though he wasn’t on call and just happened to be in the hospital at that time. When I almost passed out anyway, he sat on the floor with me and then sat with my husband during the surgery. Days later, he modestly replied that God had to be hard up if he was truly an angel as I professed.

The angel at the park looked just like a mom in blue jeans, but I know otherwise. When my four-year-old managed to drop through the monkey bars, bashing her head on just about every rung from top to bottom, the angel/mom scooped up the younger daughter and helped bundle them both in the backseat. She followed me to the hospital, giving a dollar to the two-year-old before disappearing as quickly as she had come. Days later, she smiled at me from across the mall and as far as I know, I’ve never seen her again.

Then there is the police officer who responded with the EMTs years ago during a minor emergency. Before I was able to get my two small children situated, he offered to stay with them, miraculously producing two “safety suckers” to their great delight. I saw him once more at the school drop-off point, and he waved. Apparently angels come in blue, too.

I’m really not sure about guardian angels, as I can’t quite wrap my head around one angelic being who is charged with my welfare. So I choose not to go that far. I think I’d be a pretty boring case for an angel to oversee anyway. My daughter, though, is certain that her guardian angel is named Jose and drives a dusty Volvo. If I had a guardian angel, I think he would drive a shiny sedan and follow me everywhere. If only it were that simple.

What I do know is that we don’t know much but we have to believe in something that is beyond ourselves, in another realm and in another reality. I am certain that the highway between Heaven and Earth is kept busy with angels who are always on mission and that they often work through others. Who knows, maybe I’ll get to be an angel someday.