From the Fast Track to Appalachia, by Lissa Brown




A person sitting on the ground in front of water.After forty years of satisfying careers in teaching, marketing and public relations, I decided to follow my body parts and head south into retirement. I’d always imagined living in a log cabin in the mountains, so I unleashed my inner Heidi and drove to southern Appalachia where I’ve lived for ten years. It’s been an adventure, one that I had to document in my first book, Real Country: From the Fast Track to Appalachia. A fellow writer who is a native of the North Carolina mountains warned me not to put my picture or real name on the book because, “Them boys will burn you out.†I’ve since learned she’s prone to hyperbole, but I used a pen name.
I was born and raised in New Jersey and lived in the Washington, D.C. area for twenty years before this latest, and what I hope will be the last, move. My spouse and I live in a log cabin in a mountain holler surrounded by the best that nature has to offer. Most of our immediate neighbors are also transplants. The local residents down the dirt road are pleasant but rather reserved. We wave and occasionally chat about weather, but it’s clear we’re regarded as ‘foreigners.’ There’s a clear delineation between the ‘been heres’ and the ‘come heres’ in this part of Appalachia, but we share a love of the mountains.
Our urban backgrounds weren’t much help when we arrived. Despite three years of bluegrass banjo lessons that I’d hoped would help me adjust to this part of the South, I still faced challenges with the language, food and customs. But now, I’ve become so accustomed to this bucolic rural life that I dread going back to the metropolitan areas where I used to live. Being retired certainly accounts for some of my new relaxed state, but the slower pace of life in the region plays a major role. I’ve pretty much gotten over ignoring strangers and charging into stores intent on getting out without having to speak to anyone. Once in a while I still grow impatient when someone takes twenty minutes to get to the point of what they want to say, but I’ve learned to wait politely and smile. Depending on what they finally say, I might even reply with a heartfelt ‘Bless your heart.’
At age seven I penned a newsletter that antagonized half the neighbors in my New Jersey neighborhood, and writing has been part of my life ever since. I’ve been a columnist, speechwriter, ghostwriter and anything else that allowed me to earn a living. I still write because I need to, but now it’s for my own satisfaction and enjoyment. That’s so much more fun. Since moving to the Southern mountains I’ve found my muse. I’ve written three novels and several essays that appear in a variety of anthologies. I’m honored to have received awards for my books and am certain that I could not have written them in any other place. I use my real name now. www.lissabrownwrites.com

Telling Our Stories


 

A person sitting on the ground in front of water.
There is a mystery surrounding Southern women.  Many see us as different from other women somehow; mysterious, romantic, and well.. frivolous.   But in fact, we are not so different.  We drink green tea as well as “sweet tea,” we are as likely to stir-fry as deep-fry chicken and most of us haven’t had peach cobbler in years. We go to college. We have the same career challenges, relationship boggles, and unpredictable children as everyone else.  We get the same diseases.

But the stereotype persists.  And I get it; it’s highly entertaining; it’s funny. But it’s untrue. And dangerous. Read the headlines, people. We’ve got to learn to get along.

As Patricia Neely-Dorsey put it (this blog; 3/10/15) “I believe that we can bridge many gaps of misunderstanding across regional, racial, cultural, generational and economic lines by simply telling/sharing our stories.†http://patricianeelydorsey.webs.com I agree, Patricia. Our stories are a powerful agent for understanding and healing. They make us real. So let’s get them out there.

The mission of this blog is to promote understanding of Southern women through their stories.  The first stories were of rural women of my grandmother’s generation.  They were too poor and too tired to write their own stories, so most of what we know about them survives  only in the memories of their grandchildren.  The time to save their stories is running out, and my commitment to them has not diminished.  But writing RealSouthernWomen has given me unexpected opportunities to meet wonderful, stereotype-smashing, real live Southern women with fascinating stories.  Theirs are the authentic voices of today’s Southern woman.  If you listen to them, you will understand who we really are.

The first storyteller is Lissa Brown, a New Jersey native who retired from the fast track in Washington to the mountains of Appalachia. http://www.lissabrownwrites.com Lissa is a real Southern Woman with a fascinating story to tell. She’ll be “guest-blogging†the next post.

 

 

 

 

Patricia Neely-Dorsey: “Goodwill Ambassador” for the South


A person sitting on the ground in front of water.Patricia Neely-Dorsey shares her love of the South through her poetry. “I believe that we can bridge many gaps of misunderstanding across regional, racial, cultural, generational and economic lines by simply telling/sharing our stories,” she says.  “Through my poetry, I attempt to give a positive glimpse into the Southern way of life.”

In college, her nicknames were Tupelo and Mississippi. She recalls, “Whenever my friends saw me coming, they knew that there would be some type of discourse about Mississippi and the South soon to follow…hoping to clear up their many misconceptions and preconceived notions.â€

Patricia grew up in Tupelo, Mississippi, in the red clay hill country.  Following her graduation from Boston University, she worked nearly 20 years in Memphis, Tennessee in the mental health industry. Patricia returned to her hometown in  2007 where she currently lives with  husband James, son Henry, and Miniature Schnauzer, Happy.

Patricia’s two books of poetry, Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia- A Life In Poems (2008) and My Magnolia Memories and Musings (2012), are available from Amazon. More information is available on her website, www.patricianeelydorsey.webs.com.One of her best-known, “Southern Life†is reprinted here with the author’s permission.

A person sitting on the ground in front of water.

And Sew It Goes


A person sitting on the ground in front of water.

I love sewing. My mother sewed, and my grandmothers and their mothers before them. For my mother, it was cost effective, and my grandmothers had no other alternative. But there was something else about sewing; a sisterhood, a measure of womanhood. In my family, women who did not sew their own clothing, well, just didn’t quite measure up.

And their standards of a “good wife and home-maker†have stayed with me, below the level of consciousness, motivating me to sew, conjuring memories of trips to the fabric stores, of sitting with Mother at big wooden tables leafing through pattern books, matching fabric to patterns. I can see our dining room table draped with fabric, pattern pieces weighted with jelly jars, pincushions and thimbles strewn about, A person sitting on the ground in front of water.colored threads in sewing boxes, buttons in mason jars, scraps and pattern pieces littering the floor. I hear the crunch of scissors slicing through fabric, the whirr of the sewing machine motor, I inhale the musty-starch smell of new fabric. All is well. It’s magic. Something wonderful is being created.

Well, sometimes. Unfortunately, more times than not, even my mother’s finished product fell short of the vision in my head. First of all, my body bore little resemblance to the whimsical drawings of hourglass-shaped models. Secondly, neither of us was very good at matching fabric to garment, so the finished product never looked quite the way we had imagined.

My mother and grandmothers were all excellent seamstresses. I was not so blessed. I don’t have their patience nor did I inherit their sense of spatial relationship. Patterns always seemed to be written in some secret code. So it’s not surprising that my finished products left something to be desired. Hems were uneven, seamlines bulged, things were a little too loose here, too tight there. But so much had been invested! The fabric, the notions, the time! The pretense had to be maintained, at least for awhile. It wasn’t that bad! And besides, hadn’t Mother said, if you looked hard enough at a store-bought dress, you’d find mistakes? And the fabric in store-bought clothes is so flimsy things never last more than a season. That’s why we sew our own clothing….it’s just the right thing to do.

A person sitting on the ground in front of water.And so the charade continued through the years; untidy stacks of fabric hoarding closet space, sewing machines capable of every imaginable stitch and flourish, lavishly equipped sewing rooms, sewing classes. But still, garment after garment joined the procession from the front through the back of the closet, on its way to the charity bin. Each time I was sure this garment would be beautiful. I would build a wardrobe around it. I would be the envy of all my friends, whipping out these little fashion statements in my spare time. After all, I’m getting better at this, right?

Wrong.

Last week I began a pair of pants that I have planned for years. I bought the fabric during the Clinton administration. It was all the rage. And I had been waiting for just the right moment to whip them up. They would be stunning, long and flowing. Just the thing to set off a summer wardrobe. The pattern was dirt simple. What could possibly go wrong? I’d have it done in an afternoon.

But. It had pockets. Two of them. The first of which I put in backward. Twice. And then I sewed it in properly…on the outside of the pants leg. Once corrected, I put in the other pocket. Inside out. So now the top-stitching was on the wrong side. You get the drift. Each time I ripped out the seams, the edges frayed so that when they were re-sewn, everything got smaller. But after ripping out and re-sewing over three afternoons through countless Modern Family reruns, Viola! One slightly- smaller-than-expected-leg completed. Delighted, I held it up to the mirror. It was, well…awful. I tried to convince myself that it would look much better when the pants were finished and hemmed. Or perhaps I should just rip it out, put the pieces back together and make a skirt.

“What’s that?†my husband asked absently as I walked by carrying my failed pant-leg.

“Just something I’ve been sewing†I mumbled.

“But,” curious now, “what IS it?

“A pants leg?†I said defensively.

He looked confused. “You spent an entire WEEK on one pants leg? Aren’t there two?”

” Well, yes,” I said, “I ran into a little trouble. But now that I’ve got it down..”.my voice trailed off.

Amazingly, he didn’t laugh. “Did you enjoy doing it?†he asked, gently.

I said nothing.

“Hey! Give yourself a break! Go to Chico’s and buy some pants.,†he said, going back to his magazine.

Although the need for pants was never the point, I think I’ll take his advice. It’s been a painful lesson, too long in coming. I am just not good at this. It will be humbling to find a home for all that fabric, the patterns, and expensive dress form. But it’s such a relief to honor my limitations and give myself permission to do what I like rather than what I think someone else expects of me. For years I have tried to sew clothing to meet my concept of my mothers’ standards for a good wife and homemaker. Although I knew on a conscious level that the days are long gone when it was more expensive to buy than to sew clothes, the irrationality of my obsession to master the art of garment sewing completely escaped me. Early lessons are not easily unlearned, if ever. I bet my mothers would have jumped at the chance to shop at Chico’s. And I’m amazed that it took a week of rainy afternoons in retirement for me to realize that it was my unrealistic expectations, not those of my mothers, that have been hounding me all these years.

But I won’t give up the comforting connection with my mothers that sewing provides. I need something that doesn’t require a pattern or have to fit anything. And something I actually enjoy! Maybe I’ll try quilting. I can even use some of that fabric stash. I think my Mothers will be relieved. They must have been cringing all these years.

 

Photography from Flickr Creative Commons:  Sewing room; Kristen Roach;  Simplicity Dress: Carbonated; Sewing : plaisanter

Gloria’s Gift


Late for our appointment, I prayed I hadn’t missed her. I badly needed help with the house and had been dismally unsuccessful in finding it. This lady came highly recommended by my neighbor Elaine, who gives new meaning to the word “picky.†As I rushed toward my cul-de-sac, I met a weather-beaten SUV headed toward me. Hoping it might be Gloria, I waved it down, and luckily, it was.
She was a large woman; very pretty with skin the color of honey and a ready smile. I estimated her age to be 40-something, and her ample breasts and broad hips suggested multiple childbirths. There was a peaceful manner about her, but there was something more. Something elusive. Something that seemed to insulate her from the chaos around her.A person sitting on the ground in front of water.
Gloria waved off my apologies for being late even though the round trip to my house would have cost at least five dollars, given the price of gas at the time. She quickly went to work, assessing what needed to be done, shaking blinds, running her hands over door jams, moving furniture, lifting sofa pillows. Given the extent of cleaning she proposed, I was expecting her service to be expensive. But her estimate was suprisingly reasonable. (Did I mention that Elaine is also good with a dollar?) I seized the opportunity.
From the first day, I knew I was uncommonly lucky to have found her. Gloria and her crew were fabulous. They were fast, thorough, professional and embarrassingly affordable.
But in spite of the fact that she spent several hours in my home twice a month, I really knew very little about Gloria. She was always courteous, but she answered any questions not directly related to housekeeping with a polite “Yes†or “No.†Gloria never discussed her personal life, and I never pressed. So I expected only a polite “Thank you,†when she received her Christmas bonus. But as she opened her pay envelope, her face lit up, and she smiled broadly.

“Well, THIS will come in handy,†she said, happily waving the check in her hand.

“Good!†I said, expecting to hear about something she wanted for herself or her family.

She continued, uncharacteristically animated.

“My mom works at the hospital, and there’s this lady they brought in last weekend – I don’t know what’s wrong, but she’s real sick. She’s in ICU. And the saddest thing, she had a little boy with her. He just sits by himself in the family lounge. He’s been there all this time. The nurses bring him food and blankets, but he never leaves the hospital. He only speaks Spanish, so Mom’s the only one can understand him. The little boy, his name is Lucas, said they came here to see a doctor for his grandmother, and that he was five, but Mom couldn’t find out anything more. They seem to be alone. Mom thinks they’re homeless. So this will buy a present for him and some clean clothes!â€

She smiled broadly. And then suddenly to my surprise, she gave me a bear hug. “Thanks,†she said. “And Merry Christmas.â€

After she left, I sat for several minutes thinking about what had just happened. I had expected she would do with extra money just what I would have done. But unlike most of us, Gloria had not lost her balance in the whirlwind of the holiday season. She still knew the true meaning of a Christmas gift. And that was her gift to me, the one I needed most.

Cameo: Natalie Baszile


Queen Sugar is an intriguing new novel about Charley, an African American woman who unexpectedly inherits a sugarcane farm in Louisiana. http://nataliebaszile.com/book/. The author, Natalie Baszile,  is not a Louisiana native. Her father was born in southern Louisiana, and much of his extended family still lives there. But while she often visited on vacations and holidA person sitting on the ground in front of water.ays, Natalie grew up in Southern California and currently lives in San Francisco. She comes to writing as a scholar, the recipient of numerous fellowships and awards, having studied at UCLA and Warren Wilson College. So even though she writes about the South, she is not a “typical” Southern woman. When I asked if she considered herself a Southern woman, she replied, “I have a Southern Heart.” Indeed she does. And at the end of the day, that Southern Heart is what unites us as Southern women; that spirit not defined by zip code, politics, race, religion, socioeconomics, or any of a number of other tiresome labels.

In Queen Sugar, Ms. Baszile portrays the South as She really is. She has no truck with stereotypes and plows deliberately through to the underlying truths about the lives of her characters.  Through Charley’s eyes, we experience the  outlandish beauty of the South as well as its senseless injustices.   We feel the gravitational pull of Southern family bonds and the joys of unexpected friendships. We are outfoxed by the seductive Southern charm that blankets pain with an illusory veil.   We confront  our unrecognized prejudices.  And through Charley’s trials, we witness the outrageous persistence of Southern women in the face of hardship.

Here is one of my favorite passages from the book: “Because life should be as simple as a bucket of fish caught a few miles offshore and a van full of produce bought at a roadside stand. It should be as sweet as a cube of melon the color of your heart.” (Ch. 6)

This is not a book review.  But Queen Sugar goes on my list of favorites.  If you’re looking for a beautifully written story with an engaging plot that presents an authentic picture of the present-day South,  here it is.   It’s an honor to claim Natalie Baszile in the sisterhood of Real Southern Women.