It’s well known in the South that we rely on our PEOPLE---our relatives, our friends, our confidantes and closes and chums, and just the word encompasses more than Streisand ever dreamt.
Our People are the ones who raise us, raise us up, shore us up, look after our welfare til we’re up on our feet, tend and scold and feed and arrange and hug. They're the ones we went to visit in our first high-top shoes, the names on tattered envelopes smelling of time and Toujours Moi, the first owners of the dresser scarves, the battered jelly strainer, the tiny lapel watch from nursing school, the Magical Teapot which still mystifies. They may be five-generations-back and mere myths in the mist, but we know them by the stories and the memories, the names on the back of crumbling photos, the pale spider-crabbed script in a musty Bible, the faded-to-gray pictures in an equally worn album. We DO need our people---those hard-working, far-back farmers and hunters and folks of field and plow; the men who logged the woods and the women who met the noon train with their hot dinners to sustain them.
And my memories of our people mostly run to the female side—the Grandmothers and Aunts who took a hand in our raisings, teaching us manners and math and cooking and faith. They are the WE of me, thank you dear Mrs. McCullers, and the long line of those stalwart, sensible, good-hearted, laughing women with their snuff and garden hoes and way with crochet, their black-skillet wisdom passed on with the skillets themselves---those are mine, and I’m so thankful.
Today, I happened to look in on Angela’s blog, with photos of her friend’s daughter’s wedding, and was treated to such a charming Sepia Sentimental Journey of family memories that I hope you’ll look in. A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY, indeed.