Thesis, W.J. Cash and Me

It's about to be a long summer, friends. I've almost completed my MFA in Writing with only one thing standing in my way: my thesis, which I'm scheduled to defend on August 20. D-Day.

My thesis is based on proving and disproving the ideas put forth in W.J. Cash's book The Mind of the South. Before things start sounding too academic, allow me to clear this up for those of you who haven't read this 1941 treasure.

Cash, who incidentally hails from the piedmont of North Carolina, wrote and published a book that essentially bursts the bubble of Southern unreality. What do I mean by that exactly? By that I mean he claims the antebellum South wasn't quite as wistful and glamorous as it's made out to be. By that I mean he claims white men (and all men) worship white woman without just cause. By that I mean he basically said we were all full of horse shit and no great ideas had ever come out of South.

Crazy, right? Except that on many occasions he is -- dare I say it -- correct.

So the long and short of it is that my thesis will prove that he is right and that his arguments still have merit, but that those imperfections and flaws of character don't define the South. They mean we're bad people and they certainly don't mean we're stupid.

Bored yet? Good, because I'm not done yet.

One exciting discovery I made when re-reading ol' Cash is that he isn't as boring as I remember. I recall moaning and groaning my way through his text when I was forced to read it in undergrad. Now I'm willingly (sort of) picking it up, dusting it off and starting the journey all over again. And it doesn't suck.

I think I'm starting to grow up. Gasp!

In a rut

I've always heard that couples occasionally go through rough periods, small ruts. Well, I fear that the South and I are in a rut.

In case you haven't noticed, my posts have become few and far between. It's not that I don't love entertaining you with my southern wit and sarcasm (that's a joke), but lately I haven't had anything southern-relevant happen.

I think part of the issue is that I'm in Savannah. I know that this city is supposed to be steeped in tradition and history, home to many famous monuments and Civil War fortifications, but quite honestly I walk through the tradition every day without feeling its weight.

At home in the hills of North Carolina, our southern heritage is everywhere. It's in the stories told by a hillbilly at the gas station. It's in the abundance of broken down automobiles in the neighbor's front yard. It's in the redneck parade that kicks off every high school year.

Yep. That's three different kinds of Sweet Potatoes. Both tradition and heritage at its finest.

But mostly, it's in the goodness of the people - the ones who remind me of the truth in the phrase "southern hospitality." All the monuments and fortifications in the world can't replace the southern feeling I get when I'm around my kinfolk (that's southern for "family").

So tonight, I apologize. I've neglected you my fair readers, but I refuse to give you less than the best. So bear with me while I navigate my way through this strange southern terrain... but feel free to bless some hearts in the meantime, you should all be experts by now.

I'm from the mountains

So apparently there is a hurricane headed toward Savannah. Awesome.

It's looking like winds anywhere from 90-115mph and a category 2-3 hurricane by the time it graces the coastal empire with its presence. Awesome.

Clearly this hurricane does not read my blog, because if it did then it would know that I'm from the mountains, far away from oceans and hurricanes. Snow I can handle. Hurricanes are not my scene.

We've had one hurricane in recent memory - Hurricane Hugo back in the 80s. We're practically born again hurricane virgins. So don't do it Hurricane Irene, just take a moment to collect yourself and calm down.

Some news sources are comparing the impending storm to Hurricane Hugo. That is not a good sign. So I am spending my evening learning the ins and outs of hurricane etiquette.

Also, I have an obsession with furniture, so I will admit that I am most worried about damage to my beloved furniture and my car, which is my other pride and joy. I know it's selfish and materialistic, but I can't help it. I love my furniture and my car.

Bless the hearts of anyone in the path of this hurricane, I hope you're more well-versed in hurricane procedures than I am!

Hoarding: Buried Alive

Last night, I was livid and highly offended, as was my roommate. Per usual, we were watching our DVR'd episodes of Hoarding: Buried Alive, the greatest show ever if your stomach is strong enough.

On this particular episode a man named Floyd was living in absolute filth and large amounts of mold in northern California. That's fine, do what you will with your life. But then it was revealed that Floyd's 2-year-old son, Charlie, lived with him. Every time this child was shown on the screen he had a deep cough, presumably from the mold infested house.

Outside of the house. Yes, that's a spare trailer on the right side of the photo.
Who doesn't need one of those?

To get a better feel for this episode, feel free to watch this quick clip.

Every morning Charlie and Floyd would wake up, brush their teeth and eat breakfast like any normal father and son. Except that in this household there was really nowhere to sit, there were loaded firearms haphazardly secured to the ceiling with zip ties and there was broken glass scattered about. 

Then came the kicker.

Floyd explained very calmly that this was just the country way of life, that in the country things didn't have to be spic and span, that a little dirt never hurt a child.

You're right Floyd, dirt doesn't hurt children, but loaded firearms and mold do.

Living in a hoard does not constitute the country way of life, but I certainly appreciate that Floyd is  furthering the rest of the country's perception of country life. Awesome.

Sure, where I'm from there is no shortage of broken down cars, electronics and large-scale appliances sitting on front lawns. But there are equal amounts of well cared for homes and farms.

Last time I checked, country folk were some of the most prideful in the world and that includes taking pride in their land and their homes.

The only heart to bless in this post is California CPS. Although just to give an update, they did return his children (there was also a 1-year-old) after he cleaned it all up. Awesome.

A Mountain Kind of Feeling

At work today I was researching various gated communities, so naturally I ventured to the North Carolina staples - Hound Ears, Eseeola, Linville Ridge, etc. - even thought I work in Georgia.

When I clicked on Linville Ridge's website, the photo that unfolded before me literally made my heart hurt. I thought I was going to cry. It was the most gorgeous mountain view.

I thought I was assimilating to the low country culture. Apparently not. I believe I might just be avoiding all mountain thoughts and mountain related subjects.

How can you not love this view?
(View from the Blue Ridge Parkway near Boone, NC)

There is just something about fresh mountain air, quirky mountain folk and delectable mountain eatin' that when combined creates the most peaceful experience.

I will never understand people that don't enjoy the mountains. What is there not to like? Bless their hearts, they must not be going to the right places.

6th Annual Tater Hill Open

Apparently there are 48,000 registered pilots in France. And by pilots, I mean pilots of hang gliders and paragliders. There are only 4,000 registered pilots in the United States.

It's like the soccer debacle all over again. The United States always seems to miss out on the really good sports.  I digress.

On Saturday I went with my dad (a retired hang glider) to the 6th Annual Tater Hill Open. This event is absolutely incredible.

Take off site on top of Tater Hill.

Pilots from all over the country and the world (Peru, Germany, Brazil and England to name a few) come to Tater Hill, one of the best flying spots in North Carolina, to spend a week jumping off a mountain.

Perfect.

This is what the pilot sees.

Although the weather conditions were not ideal when my father and I went, we were still able to see 3 paragliders fly and 1 incredible landing.

Bless the heart of Lynne Townsend. Lynne, a photographer, flew tandem with an experienced pilot to captured some incredible shots of other flyers.

I will leave you with my two favorite anecdotes from the trip.

My Dad: "They use all kinds of fancy equipment these days - GPS, communication devices, barometers."
Me: What do they use the communicators for?
Dad: So pilots can tell each other when they are near each other.
Me: What did you do back when you flew?
Dad: We just yelled, "Hey! I'm underneath you!"

Random Wife of a Pilot: I'm an ER nurse and I hate it when those meth addicts come into the ER.
Dad: Meth addicts?
Random Wife: Oh hell yeah. Those people will fight you for an hour just to get $0.75. Nothing makes me stick someone with a big needle faster than a mouthy meth addict.

Praying to Dionysus

Since I crossed the Georgia border I've been praying to Dionysus and he finally answered my prayers by way of the Butterducks Winery in Guyton, Georgia.




Put an animal on your label and people are putty in your hands.


For those of you who aren't up to par on Greek God trivia, Dionysus, also known as Bacchus, is the God of wine, agriculture and fertility of land. Essentially he's my hero.

If you don't know about my love affair with wine, then you don't know me at all. Shame on you.

I will direct your attention to the right side of this photo.
I also have a love affair with stemware - and this is only part of my collection.  Don't judge me.

On a trip to Savannah prior to my graduate school induced move, my father and I had a very fateful visit to a winery in City Market. I have blocked that portion of my life from my memory because it was so terrible.

It was the first time in my life I'd wanted to spit out wine. I never waste wine.

From that moment on I was convinced that North Carolina was the only state that had great independent wineries. Before you say anything, yes, I realize plenty of other states have them too. But let me be a little narcassistic on behalf of my great state, alright?

Then it all changed.

I got a magical phone call that my friend, knowing my love of wine, had located a winery in the country - totally my style.

As soon as the first sip of that sweet Chardonnay hit my lips, the light butter taste and smooth oak accent let me know that Dionysus hadn't forgotten about me, he'd lead me home.

Bless your heart Dionysus, I bet you knew how to have a good time.

The country bar

As I mentioned before, most of my friends in Savannah are not from the South, although several are from rural communities. But even though we share the bond of the rural perspective, I think we're having some linguistic discrepencies.

For as long as I can remember they have been talking about finding a country bar. There was even talk of square dancing and cowboy boots. I think we're on two different pages.

Where I'm from, I would consider most every bar to be country. In my mind there isn't a deliniation between country and non-country bar... they're just bars.

At the bars I'm used to, there isn't much square dancing, mind you, and while most people do wear cowboy boots, it's only because those are their fancy shoes. However, you will find in droves the staple of any country bar -- rednecks throwing back Budweisers like they're going out of style.

Maybe they'll let us join their drinking team? A girl can only dream.

With this experience in my mind, I feel like my friends and I are going into this adventure with different expectations. I'm expecting to see a bar filled with rednecks drinking beer, completely reminiscent of my high school days. I think they might be expecting to see a bar scene out of 8 seconds, but dramatized with a choreographed dance number, of course.

But then again, we will be in rural Georgia. Anything can happen, right? Bless their hearts, this is the home of the redneck games. What's a little square dancing after spending a day bobbing for pig's feet?

Football vs. Futbol

Prepare yourself football fans. Swaddle yourself in team colors, rub your Joe Montana bobblehead and schedule an emergency therapy session because the truth is about to come out.

Soccer is better than football. Period.

Valid point.

Honestly, I've never paid much mind to football loyalists. I appreciate the intensity of the sport, which is usually less than the intensity of the fans in my experience. And I appreciate the range of skills needed and all that jazz.

Need I say more?

But at the end of the day, I've just always known that soccer was better so I kept my mouth shut and let footballers live their dream.

Until now. Now it's personal.

My nephew has a football themed nursery. My sister and I have been avid soccer players and fans since we were 5. If you do the math you will realize that something isn't adding up and that something is my brother-in-law.

A southern man and by nature a football fan. Fail.

Since the day my sister found out she was pregnant she and I have been fighting an uphill battle, arguing our case for why we think Lucas (my nephew) should play soccer.

Given all the "discussions" that have ensued I can only come up with a few plausible outcomes:

1. He'll harness his rebel genes and play tennis just to spite us all
2. He'll be in the 2022 World Cup in Qatar
3. He'll play football (that is worst case scenario)

I hate to be the bearer of bad news for my brother-in-law but soccer starts a younger age than football. Bless his heart, I know someone who's getting "Soccer for Dummies" for Christmas this year.

Life on the outside

After yesterday's post, I started wondering - what's life like outside of the South?

Sure, I spent 24 hours driving to Colorado where I spent 2 glorious days exploring the area around Aspen.  However, I slept through 60% of the drive, so I learned little to nothing about the rest of the country during my adventure.

So other than cell phone pictures of the Mississippi River and the jail where Charlie Sheen was held, I'm still at a loss for what it's like on the other side.


Oh Charlie Sheen. Seeing that jail was the highlight of my trip.



I hear my non-southern friends talk about their experiences and how different it is, but no one can seem to pinpoint what is so different.



Clearly we do things differently, but I just can't put my finger on exactly what it is.

They say there isn't segregation and no one cares about race outside of the South, but from what I've gathered, all cities seem to be segregated in one way or another whether intentionally or unintentionally.

My friends tell me that we do things slower in the South. I have to disagree again... to an extent of course.



Cities are fast-paced, even in the South. Rural areas are slow-paced, even outside the South. That seems to me to be less of a regional issue and more of a population issue.

So how else are we different?

I wouldn't know. I haven't really left.

But bless my heart, with an possibly impending trip to Utah I'm sure I will find out!

Diamond rings and Hot Chelle Rae

Because of my status as a southern woman, I always assumed I would be married before I was 25.

Well you know what happens when you assume.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to be the Charlotte York of Savannah and run a campaign for nuptials. But for a long time it bothered me that I was a 23-year-old with no prospect speeding toward me on a white horse. I felt like a failure to my heritage and an anomaly in my county.

Not anymore, because last night I had an encounter with Hot Chelle Rae's song "Tonight Tonight."

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Let me back up.

Last night, before my Hot Chelle Rae epiphany, I went on a casual date with a guy I met a few weeks ago. He was a total gentleman and we had a perfectly lovely evening filled with good conversation and delicious food.

But I noticed that the entire night I kept talking about my summer internship and how much I loved my work. At one point I even said how "career-minded" I was.

Then I realized it was true. I am extremely career-minded and I like it that way. Marriage would be nice, but it's not an immediate priority and that's okay.

And as the weight lifted from my shoulders, I had a little talk with myself:
It's 2011 for Christ's sake, Megan. Southern women can do more than get married and juggle children, careers and husbands. We can even drive cars now... and wear pants. Live your life!

Now to the Hot Chelle Rae portion of the evening. When I arrived home my roommate informed me that he had finally downloaded "Tonight Tonight," and proceeded to play it.

As I danced around the kitchen baking muffins to the rhythm of that hilarious song at 11:00 at night, I realized that I am happy. And I'm single.

But bless the heart of any man who marries me, he might want to see my white girl dancing skills before he makes any rash decisions.

Tater Hill

One of the old mountain past times was hang gliding. Nowadays it tends to be more focused on paragliding, but I'm still quite partial to the hang gliding stories of old.

Hang glider.

Paraglider.

I haven't done it myself (yet) but my father used to be a hang gliding instructor at the one and only Tater Hill, NC.

My dad standing at the old launch point (It is a straight drop past the rock's edge).
In his own words, "It certainly had a pucker factor."

Tater Hill is the prime location to hang glide in the North Carolina mountains and is owned by Bubba Goodman (no, I'm not making that up).

However, reaching the launch point of Tater Hill requires some finesse. And by finesse I mean four-wheel drive and at least 20-30 minutes of going about two miles an hour straight up the side of a mountain. I digress.

Hang gliding seems romantic to me.

I can't imagine seeing this view from the air.

My dad tells the best stories about sitting on the side of the mountain with friends waiting for the wind to be blowing just the right direction, talking the day away as they overlooked the valley below. Romantic.

Dad and his friends also made friends with the people that owned the landing field below. Simpler times when you could just land a personal aircraft in someone's backyard and be invited in for tea instead of being shot.

I think I would enjoy every part of hang gliding except the jumping off a cliff portion. But that seems crucial to the experience. Again, I digress.

To really experience Tater Hill, you have to attend the Tater Hill Open which occurs annually in August and brings paragliders and hang gliders alike for a weekend of flying and fun.

At the Open, the sky is full of colored gliders as far as the eye can see.

This event shows a great collection of mountain folk, and the integration of an old past time within a new generation.

Skip to 1:30 to watch a great interview with Bubba Goodman about the origin of hang gliding at Tater Hill and all their shenanigans.

But what's a post without a redneck reference? I won't disappoint with this one.

At the base of Tater Hill there is a piece of a private property that has a very interesting guard.

Yes, that is a real tank.

Bless the heart of whoever trespasses onto this private property.

Koozies, Sweet Home Alabama and a muddin' truck

Southern or country weddings are a sight to behold when they are done redneck style.

This past weekend I photographed a wedding in South Carolina and while on a scale of 1 to redneck it was barely a 2, it did possess some key southern/country wedding elements.

Southern Element #1
The bride and groom provided each guest with a personalized beer koozie in the wedding color scheme (navy blue and pink) and the hair salon even provided koozies to the bridal party so the drinking could start early.

For those of you who are unaware, this is a koozie.

Side Note: Apparently southerners, particularly South Carolinians, do not like to be inconvenienced by cold hands while drinking beverages. I have watched girls in bars whip out 3-4 koozies and see which one matched their outfit better.

Southern Element #2
The happy couple left the reception in the groom's muddin' truck, which the bridesmaids carefully spray painted, glittered and streamered prior to the departure. The groom gave them permission to decorate any part of the truck except the tires.

Allow me to explain. For those of you who are unaware, a muddin' truck is something owned by most southern or country men. It is a piece of shit truck that tends to sit on really large tires, which are worth more than any other part of the truck by far. This truck is used to four-wheel in - you guessed it - Mud!

See? The tires are the most important part.

Southern Element #3
The bride processed into the ceremony to an acoustic rendition of Brad Paisley's "Then" and the reception included a variety of southern music selections including:

• "Sweet Home Alabama" by Lynyrd Skynyrd
• "Rocky Top" by the Osborne Brothers
• "Love Your Love The Most" by Eric Church
• "She's Country" by Jason Aldean

As far as weddings are concerned, this was a classy affair. The food was delicious (ravioli and roasted chicken), the venue was gorgeous (they wed in a beautiful garden) and the attire was sleek (navy blue cocktail length dresses for the girls and light gray tuxes for the boys).

However, this wedding lacked many key elements to push it further up the redneck scale. At this wedding,

• Camouflage was not part of the theme 
• The groomsmen were sober (enough)
• No one cracked a beer during the ceremony
• The bridal party did not arrive in muddin' trucks
• The reception decorations did not include old car parts
• There were no (visible) guns

Overall, if you ever have a chance to attend a true redneck wedding, I highly recommend it. Even if you just go to a wedding that contains some country/southern elements, it's better than nothing!

But in all seriousness, bless the hearts of the bride and groom, I hope they have a long, happy life together.

Side Note: I would have included images of the wedding, but the bride hasn't seen them yet, so they will have to be added later out of respect.

Temper tantrums, soccer balls and the southern condition

When I studied southern history in undergrad, my professor used to continually rekindle the discussion about the anger southerners carry with them.

Historically, southern men tend to be outwardly aggressive and southern women tend to be outwardly passive-aggressive.

I must see this. I feel like I will understand my life better.

Either way it's not real healthy.

Through class discussions we found many possibilities for the source of the anger:

• We lost the Civil War (well some southerners don't realize that... shhhh)
• We are anti-progressionists living in a land of progression
• We see the distinction of our values being chipped away
• Men and women are pushed into very strict gender roles from a young age
• Intellectualism is still not fostered like it should be

None of these are answers, because there is no answer. Southerners just have a predetermination for aggressiveness, no matter the form.

For better or worse, it is part of the southern condition.

In my last post I posed the question "Am I passive-aggressive and don't realize it?"

I posed that question because I've been feeling rather passive-aggressive lately. Not to worry, I haven't so much given into those urges, but the fact that I feel them makes me uncomfortable.

Case in point.

As I was playing soccer today I saw a group of legitimate players across the field. Instantly I was angry.

Why wasn't I that good anymore? Why did I ever stop playing? Will I ever be good again?

And then like a sign from God, I pulled my quad muscle on the same leg I am recovering from a groin injury. Awesome.

Sweet Jesus I'm never going to get back in shape.

Curse words were flying (without raising my voice of course), I was kicking the ball with my injured leg out of pure spite - it wasn't cute. No one would have blessed my heart at that moment.

But within a couple minutes I was perfectly calm. I have seen this phenomenon happen amongst friends and family more times than I can count, and it's always a southerner.

God bless our hearts, why are we so angry? We have Nascar, Daisy Duke and rednecks with mullets... what is there to be mad about?

Have you seen Megan anywhere?

It's possible that I'm going through a phase. A phase where I'm trying to "find myself."

At 23 years old, it feels like an appropriate time to scrap the way I've done things in the past and start fresh, but my question is how do I find the new path? And is there actually anything wrong with my old one?

Since I began my search a few weeks ago all I have successfully found is a pulled groin muscle (courtesy of my new dedicated workout routine), some weird tan lines (also courtesy of exercise) and quite a lot of things in my life that I want to question.

That's precisely how I pulled my groin muscle. Overextension = Having a pimp walk.

There is nothing wrong with questions, except when you're not sure of the answers.

Here are a few things I've been pondering on my journey:

• Everyone says I'm nice, but am I really?
• Am I passive-aggressive but don't realize it?
• Do I push myself to actually succeed or do I just choose things I know I can do?
• Do I ever really let people in my head or my heart?
• By being so adamant about my southern roots, am I limiting my future?

I've started to wonder how my southernness plays into all this.

After 5 years of having my southernness scrutinized by friends (or "friends") I might as well be a one woman PR firm with the south as my sole client, but what impact does that have on my life and relationships?

I should probably be a member.

I love the south and I'm proud of my heritage, but occasionally a thought weighs in the back of my mind that maybe I only attribute credit for my good qualities to my southern roots because it's all I know to do.

Who am I if not a southern woman? At this point I almost can't define myself any other way.

Don't get me wrong. I love trailer parks, rednecks with jacked up trucks and mullets just as much as the next girl, but sometimes I want to know who I am outside of all that.

Bless my heart, I hope this personal journey doesn't involve any more pulled muscles - they hurt!

A Day in the Country

Just when I thought I would never feel at home in Savannah, I found the hidden jewel of Effingham County.

Now to say I found it would be inaccurate. I was actually taken there by my boyfriend, his brother and their father. Add to the mix their redneck friend, who reminded me of every person I ever loved in my hometown, and you can tell we were a lively bunch - toting guns no less.

Now, you may ask, why in the world would my boyfriend randomly take me to the country with guns?  Well, I'm glad you asked.

He took me for two reasons:

1. He knew I was suffocating in the city
2. He knew about my love of guns

Driving out to Effingham County from downtown Savannah, I was instantly flooded with nostalgia and happiness when I began to see run-down houses, empty fields and a lot of redneck memorabilia. It was like I could breath again.

No this is not Effingham County. But it could be.

There is something about being in the country, especially when you are with great southern people, that just makes life better.

Except that now I desperately want my concealed weapons permit.  And I desperately want the little .380 pistol I tried out! 

A gun that will fit in my clutch purse (roughly the size of my hand).  So cute!

I also think it's important to note that we did not go to a gun range. We went to a person's backyard to shoot. It was just like being at home!

The trip to Effingham County taught me that no matter where you are, you can always find a piece of home if you look hard enough

Bless the hearts of my boyfriend and his family for showing me that little slice of heaven.

True Life: I'm an Old Maid

People have told me my entire life that I act older than my age or that I am an old soul.

Every once in a while, I have the startling realization that they are right, but lately I've been wondering if it's a good thing or not.

From the time I was 16 years old (give or take) I've acted like I was a young adult. And now that I am a young adult I think I have progressed to acting like a middle-aged woman stuck in the body of a 23-year-old.

I'm not going to say that I grew up quickly because I am southern, but, okay, maybe that is what I'm saying.

Women in the south are held to such high standards from the moment we are born. We have to be good wives, good housekeepers and good mothers, and we have to be intelligent (well, not always) and dainty, but still sturdy.

How is a woman supposed to be a child with those standards looming overhead?

Oh and did I mention that we're expected to be all of those things by our early 20s?

Raini, 18,  was featured on MTV's True Life: I'm a Southern Belle

As investigated in this episode, there are plenty of modern-day southern women that still feel this pressure.

I am one of them.

Where I'm from I might as well be an old maid, because I am 23 and unmarried with no shiny engagement rings in my near future.

In the south, I might as well be the old lady with cats, except I hate cats.

Now I'm not saying that every woman is raised that way and it is certainly less intense in the new south, but in our culture there is always going to be this underlying dialogue about whether we (women) fit our gender role. This goes for men too.

So now that I'm in Savannah, which for me does not seem southern at all, I might take a break from being an old maid and allow myself to be 23 and carefree.

If you're an unmarried young southern woman, bless your heart, we're riding a rough road.