Anytime a Southerner speaks about eating a salad, it doesn’t necessarily mean a bowl of leafy lettuce topped with a mix of vegetables and a light vinaigrette that looks like rabbit food. You see, any good Southerner knows that a salad come in a wide variety of options. There is the classic chicken, ham, and egg (sometimes with olive) salad that all can substitute as a lovely filler between two slices of wonder bread. There’s the heavy, carb-based salads like macaroni, potato, and even cornbread salad that always seems best with a touch of bacon mixed in. And there’s the ever-evolving fruit based, gelatin salads that just so happen to make my sister-in-law gag at the thought of them.

Growing up in the South, Mardi Gras has always been a holiday to celebrate. Whether you got a full week off of school as the Louisianans do or you simply got to bring a King Cake to class on Fat Tuesday, it was a day (or week or month) to remember. I can remember when I was in second grade, the teacher let someone bring a King Cake to the cafeteria. Whoever found the baby got to bring the cake the next day. This went on for a full month as we rotated through every person in the class. It was delicious, glorious, and all of our eight-year-old selves were crashing from our sugar rush just in time for dismissal. Poor parents.

Let me first be clear that this is not a political short story whatsoever. Being in healthcare, I am absolutely used to masking. While I may be tired of it and am glad I’m starting to see some of it coming to an end, to each his own. Do whatever makes you feel safe, but here is a quick short story that will let you know it may be time to put them away.

Every once in a while, certain people come into our lives and make a significant impact on us. One particular person I have been lucky to call a friend for over twenty- five years did just that for me in the sixth grade. As she turned forty this week, I reflected on our friendship, and had many laughs as I did so.

The more I write, the more I realize that I have been a natural observer my entire life. I am sure most writers could say the same. Someone once told me they asked the great novelist, John Grisham, how he comes ups with ideas for his novels. and his response was, “Easy. I just observe people.”

When talking with my eight-year-old son, he recently asked me if I could please write about the Great Flood. “Are you talking about the Nashville flood of 2010? You weren’t even born! Or the one from the Bible?” I asked as I folded what seemed to be the sixty-seventh load of laundry for the week. And it was only Tuesday

It was 2016, and I had just moved into my husband’s childhood home. We had recently sold our first house as we were considering expanding our family and needed more space. The problem was that even in 2016 in Nashville, Tennessee, there was nowhere to go once you sold, and bidding wars were becoming the new norm. So, there we were- my husband, my two-year old son, my in-laws, and myself all under one roof. Now, I consider myself pretty lucky as I actually like my in-laws. I know… call me crazy, but they are always there to lend a supportive ear and make sure my wine glass is filled to the top. It only got a little awkward when we found ourselves folding one another’s underwear.

It was fall of 2000, and after years of being mentally ready to fly the coop, I was finally getting my turn to attend college. A group of my friends from high school had applied for early move in, so we were getting a chance to beat the crowds and get our things situated before the mad rush of official Move-In Day. We packed our bags and hauled our things (with the help of our parents) two hours north of Jackson to Oxford, Mississippi, so we could start our fun filled college adventure at Ole Miss.