Not sharing the cornbread.

It probably comes as zero surprise to you that I have a strong dislike of road trips. And when I say strong, we're talking "I'm ready to throw myself out of this window as soon as I can self-contain my head beating against it." Although this isn't the point of this post, I'll share with you my self-diagnosed reasons as to why:

• First, you must remember that I have three brothers. Although we (thankfully) didn't have to take many road trips growing up, we did undertake enough of them to scar me for life. Picture me, plus three stinky, snoring, touching-me-with-their-gross-boy-feet boys, and that's probably all the visualization you'll need. 

Three little brothers. Six stinky boy feet.

• Second, I get really, really, really carsick. Goose thinks I make it up - although he's never been able to articulate a possible reason as to why I would - but heart-crossed, stick a needle in my eye, 98% of the time I'm in the backseat of a car, I'm praying I don't vom. (Learned secret over the years: sugar cookies and Coca Cola will distract you into thinking you're cured.)

Deathly carsick here after a Mexico City road trip. The worst kind.

•  Third, I am TERRIBLE with direction, self-orientation, stargazing and compass-reading, which boils down to me getting lost, all the time, without fail. My dad used to get frustratingly baffled at my inability to get anywhere without calling him eleven times to guide me.  

I googled "Stargazing" and this is one of the first pictures. Naturally. You're welcome.

So, moral of the story, I hate road trips. Shocking, I've digressed. (While in digression, the very nerdy OCD attorney in me just catapulted with glee in finding that Blogger allows you to use bullet-points. Best discovery e.v.e.r. I envision many bullet-points to come.)

On Friday, me, Goose and our two yiddles are loading it into my (recently wrecked by husband) car and roadtriping it to the very, very, very Deep South. If we arrive there not-divorced, it will be our greatest married accomplishment to date. (Deep South family, if you're reading this, have the confetti and balloons ready to congratulate us on our feat; unless, of course, we're getting divorced. In that case, have a "Quick! Hide the confetti and balloons!" Plan B prepared and practiced.)

Did I mention that neither Petrie nor Pax will sit in the back seat? And if heaven forbid we attempt, Petrie is very vocal with her general annoyance with life and Paxter spends every waking second attempting to outsmart us with his escape route back to our laps. Evidence below.

Goose and I are going to pack up Mom's house. It will be sad. It will be the hardest thing I've ever done. And I will cry and look like a bloated zombie. But then I'll eat boiled peanuts and let my Ganny hug on me, and it will be better.

Although our cause is not to be overlooked, I am also very stoked to be going. I'm rarely at a loss of words (clearly), but describing to you the strengthening of my soul that occurs when I go back is almost indescribable. Almost.



First grandchildren are the best grandchildren. Obviously.



Let's lay it on the table here. I will gain eight pounds in the ten days I'm in Mississippi and take only loose-fitting dresses, most of which will be tight upon my return. I will eat cheese straws and pan-fried corn bread and boiled peanuts and grapes rolled in cream cheese and homemade fried chicken and I will like it. And I'll probably eat seconds. Minnie, the firecracker of a lady who originally cooked for my great-grandmother and then my grandmother before her retirement at a ripe old age of 90+, will make a pan of cornbread for me and I will not share it, even with my dear sweet Ganny. I will not lie in regret after big meals or lament myself for the three helpings of dessert I had. And Goose? Let's just say the man doesn't eat second (third?) helpings anywhere but the Deep South. 



Although I've never lived in the Deep South, I feel like I'm a native. And it is something I hold very dear. Double-names are the norm, and questions aren't answered with "What?" or "Huh?" but instead "Ma'am?" or "Sir?" When babies are born, you look back through the generations of your family for a name (which, by the way, you can track, because your family has lived in the same general area for the last nine generations), all of which are said with at least two extra syllables inserted. When men enter the room, they greet each female with a kiss on the cheek. Women still get their hair done at the "beauty parlor" weekly, and casseroles are exchanged by the truckload when a baby is born or a family member dies. The hills are covered in kudzu, which the rest of the country has shockingly never heard of.

Life moves more slowly. I laugh more and wear less makeup and talk with a very strong drawl, which sounds something between a terrible Reese Witherspoon "Sweet Home Alabama" imitation and the real deal.

Yes, my Da wears suspenders like a boss.

When Mom was a teenager, my grandfather packed her up and drove her to Austin, Texas to attend The University of Texas. She would stay for 25 years, but her heart never left the Deep South. Because of that, so many of my childhood memories are based there. Starting at just a few months old, I would spend a fair amount of my summers staying at Ganny & Da's house, digging in deep to the small-town way of life. Porch swings. Days spent at the Country Club, jumping out of the pool only to eat a quick lunch served by Mrs. Russell. Fire flies. Sweet tea. (And I've clearly transitioned into writing a cheesy romance novel. Which, reminds me, have you seen The Help? Filmed here. That should shore up your visual.)

Probably a good indication of my future legal career would be my "How long am I allowed to stay in Mississippi?" discussions I had with my parents growing up. Which, for the record, I normally won. Mom's family goes back literally generations in the area. Houses have been passed down from generation to generation. All of my cousins were raised in homes that originally held either my great-great grandparents or great-grandparents. The banisters and floor beams in my grandparent's house come from the Antebellum home that stood on their lot for a 150 years, the very same home that William Faulkner's Rowen Oaks was modeled after in 1844. There are historical markers for Civil War cannon fire. The streets leading off the square are still cobbled instead of paved. And there is something so very-deepening about that. Add a buttermilk recipe to the mix and you're sold for life.

Ah, and here it is. You knew I couldn't make it through an entire sappy post without my general sarcasm (that, my friends, comes directly from the non-Deep South straight-up-born-bred-and-raised in the Big City side of the family. Their time will come, and you will like it.). It is INEVITABLE that I will look like I'm thirteen while I'm there. Their water wrecks havoc on my face. In fact, people probably assume I'm in perpetual puberty, because by day two of my visit, I will have a breakout that is determined to rule the world and my face. Oh, and I sleep with nose strips on, because my Big City senses are in manual overload from the "this-is-how-air-smells-without-pollution" smells. Add that to the eight pounds of weight I'll gain, and the reason I didn't land a Deep South husband (much to my Mother's dismay) should be self-evident. (And for the record, I landed a Mexican one, and Mom loved him, and we speak at the same speed and have the same general cynicism for life, so we'll be ok. That is, assuming we don't kill each other on our road trip.)



Deep South water, attacking my head.



So wish us luck. Say a prayer (or nine) for us. Come visit. Ganny will have a well-laid table ready and waiting for you.

And I won't share the cornbread that's on it. Even if you bribe me with gold.