Mama, What is Dixie? Asked and answered in my own terms....

I had a poignant moment this week, courtesy of Facebook. Now, you are probably saying to yourself, "Facebook? Really?" In the midst of all the political rhetoric, Farmville requests, baby bump pictures, the vague "hey, look at me" posts, complaints about traffic, descriptions of what somebody ate for dinner, and how much everyone hates their job....you can find a source of inspiration or a random quote that actually makes your day. Mine came from my friend Rachel, who I've known for a decade. She now lives in Washington DC with her husband Will, who I've known about the same amount of time. I went to college with these two wonderful people and sadly, I have not seen them in a long while. I can say the same for many of my college friends, time and distance have rendered our relationship digital. Despite its faults, Facebook is an avenue to keep up with long distance friends and I am glad a few nerds from Harvard took it upon themselves to create it. Anyhow, Will and Rachel have a young daughter named Eileen. I would not know what she looks like if it were not for Facebook. She is a cute little blonde girl with curls, one of those quintessential Southern sweethearts. Rachel posed a question on Facebook that Eileen asked of her and I share with you now:

"Mama, what's Dixie?"

I thought about that question for quite some time. Is there a definition of "Dixie?" Is it limited to the physical? Can it be a mental state of mind as well? I pondered it over a cup of coffee. Then another. I realized that I have been trying to define this term my entire life. To hear a young child, with her life ahead of her, ask that question ignited the ever-present pilot light inside my brain. So, Miss Eileen, I will tell you what Dixie is, according to me.

It's where I was born, "early on one frosty morn," dear. Elvis sang this line in "American Trilogy" so beautifully that it renders my eyes misty every time. You should listen to Elvis, Eileen. You may not end up being a lifelong fan, but he defines Dixie in his own sense. Ask your parents and grandparents.  If you grow up in a small town, you will get the best sense of Dixie that is possible. There's nothing wrong with a big city, I live in one now, as do you. However, these melting pots often dilute culture as much as they build it. It has not changed me one bit, that much I can say. If you cut me open, my bones would be made of red clay and my blood would be water from Two Run Creek. I played in that creek countless times as a child. There is no telling how many periwinkles I collected, water moccasins I dodged, bream I caught, or rocks I skipped in this tiny trickle of muddy water. In fact, Eileen, the name of this blog is derived from memories of that creek. I hope you get a creek someday. Stick your bare feet in it. Grab a handful of the mud and get it under your fingernails. That mud is Dixie, my dear.  Walk downstream, using branches from ferns and willow trees to guide you. Just don't grab any poison ivy or poison oak or you'll be pink from your mother smothering you in Calamine lotion. I know from experience.

Get a Slip n Slide during the summer when it is so unbearably hot and humid that it feels like you are breathing in a wet dish rag. That heat? That's Dixie. Plug in your Iphone, if that's what you have, and blare some good music while you cool off. Listen to Marshall Tucker, the Allman Brothers Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the Outlaws. Hear those guitars echo in the pine trees that hopefully still surround the area. That sound defines us. While you are waiting your turn on the Slip n Slide, take a moment to listen to Duane play his slide guitar. It will stick to your soul, just like that pine sap that you will undoubtedly get all over your hands. When I am having a bad day, I just turn on "Mountain Jam" and recall the smell of pine sap on my hands. That was from the countless forts that I tried to build. Build forts, Eileen. Build lots of them.

I had a dogwood tree outside my window growing up. I hope you get one too. When in bloom, they smell like Heaven. That smell? Dixie. Climb its branches, that is what they are made for. Endure a rain shower sitting on a dogwood branch, it will change your life. Ride your bike to the local store, if such a thing still exists. Go downhill with no hands on the handlebars, that is the only way I ever exited Kimsey Circle on my GT bike with 6 gears. Talk to the old men who hang around and drink coffee. Eat ice cream and candy. Heat up a Moon Pie and drink a pint of whole milk. You will not find people in coats and ties here, these people wear dirty boots all day and talk about chainsaws, backhoes, people named Ricky who call in sick too much, the Atlanta Braves, water heater elements, 3/4 inch PVC elbows and radiators. They are characters, but such is life in a small town. They are Dixie.

During the Fall, your life will revolve around football. Get used to it. Your dad will get with his friends, like me, and relive glory days and bark like a dog. Do not be alarmed, dear. This is Dixie. The smell of barbecue and a faint whiff of bourbon. Women in their Saturday best, which consists of red shirts, black skirts, heels and red lipstick, by God, let's not forget the red lipstick. You will burn up in August and then freeze in November. You will eat fried chicken, mashed potatoes (with gravy), macaroni and cheese (because it's a vegetable) and sweet potatoes. You will sing "Glory, Glory" when we win and ride home in silence when we lose (your dad will get over the loss around next Tuesday, that's about as long as it takes me). This ritual takes place in all Southern states, dear. No matter where you go to school, nothing will compare to the experiences you will have in Athens. There is no telling how many fake touchdowns I scored in the Hull Street parking lot, posing as Lindsay Scott. How many I threw to my parents and my brother, posing as Buck Belue. You may not do that very thing, but I want you to witness it, just the same. Learn the importance of a great offensive line, creative play calling in the red zone and always hate Tech.

As you get older, you will learn history. Our history is spotted, yet proud. You will hear of "lost causes, hate, segregation and Reconstruction." Many people will judge you because you are from Dixie, make assumptions about you and your way of life. Remind them, that the American way of life has been preserved by armed forces made up of an inordinate amount of your Southern ancestors. My grandfather landed on Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944 and lived to tell it. My other grandfather served in Korea. Many of the people who judge you are too cowardly and weak to endure such a violent and bloody struggle. Listen to the older generations. Learn from them. Love your Neen and your Meemaw, your Granddaddy and your Peepaw. They are like a welcome summer rain storm, wonderful in so many ways. Pouring on you while you dance around. Cooling you off when times are hot. Like the storm, they will not be around forever. Take lots of pictures and never, ever turn down a milkshake or a piece of cake they made. Always say "yes" to the question, "you wanna go fishing?" They are Dixie.

I speak in colloquial terms often, it's a Southern thing to do. We are the kings of reading between the lines. You will know when somebody says "bless their heart," to watch out for gossip immediately thereafter. You will understand when someone you don't know talks about the weather too much, to put your hand on your wallet. You will know that you "pull" corn, you do not "pick" it. When somebody says, "I don't know about that boy," that does not mean exactly what it says. When your grandmother "hopes you don't get in that cloud" on the way home, that does not mean you are physically entering a cumulonimbic realm of destruction. You can use phrases like "Y'all ain't never..." and get away with it. We have our own language. That's Dixie.

So, what is Dixie? It is defined by you. It's sitting in silence in an old cotton field, like I used to do. Breathing in that thick air. Watching the carpenter bees pollinate every flower. Looking down at my skinned knees, not remembering how it happened. Catching lightning bugs with my brother or listening to the Doobie Brothers with Mom while she catches some sun on the deck. Working at the store with Dad, hauling horse feed and checking oil, talking about whether Gregg Allman sounded better on "Queen of Hearts" or "Multi Colored Lady." It is the place where you feel most content, no matter how far you may travel. Where you learned more about who you are, than what you are. Where chivalry is not dead and a good drag laying by a 1977 Camaro will elicit as many cheers as a touchdown on a Saturday. Where you can be friends with people named Dwayne, Harold, Buck, Leon, Junior and Jubal. Where you get your first kiss, your first heartbreak and your first breakup song ("When I Call Your Name" by Vince Gill) If you ever forget, Eileen, do yourself a favor. Go back to your creek. Grab a handful of mud and put your feet in. It won't take long for it to come back.