I was recently at my beloved hair dresser’s getting my routine highlights and self- care maintenance when a casual story came up regarding candlelights and college engagements when I was in school. Eric about fell out in disbelief as I told this story of a very southern engagement tradition. And he truly about fell out when I told him that twenty years later, this tradition still stands.

Everyone who is anyone knows that Southerners have a specific way of talking. It’s slow as molasses and so drawn out, you may catch a cat nap before a sentence is complete. Some may find it annoying or strange, but most people I know can find a comfort in the relaxed way we annunciate our words.

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