Southern Fried Personalities

I love that bit that Shirley MacLaine does in Steel Magnolias about people from the south and their eccentricities… And it came to mind while Rob and I were meandering our way on a kudzu (Rob’s nightmare) lined path we came across the tiny Bl— Museum. I can’t resist a museum. Especially a house museum. (This may well prove to be my downfall one of these days…)

Pulling up to the circle drive behind two other cars we got out and blinked in the midday sun (Cue the cicadas), then walked up the porch to the wide door with the “Open” sign hanging on it. It was locked. (Ominous organ music begins.) Robby knocks at the door while I try to look innocent behind him. The door opens and a middle aged man with a deep drawling voice welcomes us in with about two dozen apologies for the door being locked. He blocks our view of the hall and issues apology #25 while noting that there is a $3 admission charge. With six greenbacks in hand he brightly begins telling us about the xeroxed, enlarged image of “the lady that lives here”’s great great grandfather who fought for the south during “The War.” Robby remarks on the two swords hanging above and below the picture– Guide Man hastily apologizes that they are, in fact, Union swords– he’d really like them to be Confederate…(awkward moment of me wondering– should we genuflect?)

Guide Man then proceeds to lead us towards what he deems, “the real jewel of the place– our prized possession,” stepping aside to dramatically reveal a window and two shutters leaning against the wall. Turns out they’re from the movie set of Gone With the Wind’s Tara. Huh. We admire the window– actually Rob took that on while I studied the black and white studio stills from the set– and– when Guide Man looked expectantly at us we both tooks turns admiring the window again. And a third time. Pleased, he led us farther down the hall to a little shelf full of reproduced newspaper articles and photographs of the nearby filming of Pet Semetary (the display included a tiny headstone among other objects). Guide Man remarked on this and then turned our attention to the other museum displays– mostly things that, “I found in my attic and thought people would enjoy seeing” or “from the lady that lives here.”

At one point he disappeared briefly while Robby & I looked at the binder full of pictures from the location shoot of Fried Green Tomatoes (Guide Man: “we knew someone who was there”). Rejoining us he was pleased, he said, to introduce us to the “lady who lives here” Robby’s eyes widened (he said later that he thought for sure she was in the next room stuffed like Mrs. Bates) as a slightly older woman came in and introduced herself to us. From there it was difficult to leave. Guide Man asked us where we’re from and how we heard of the place and we remarked that we’re from Michigan and that we saw the sign– he and TLWLH seemed triumphantly pleased and explained that the local zoning wouldn’t permit them to have any advertising or signage… that they had to rely on people seeing that little sign that couldn’t possibly bother even the zoning board. (From the look Rob flashed me he agreed with the zoning board.) She made sure we signed the register (the last people through were a week previous… Where they still there? Should we call out?) And reiterated the same information Guide Man had told us about everything. (Clearly, they need an Interpretation Plan.) A few times she scolded him for not giving us more information. Robby and I continuously edged toward the door– Rob’s eyes flicked to the swords (he said later he thought he might use one to get us out) and she noted with a sigh, “I suppose he told you that they aren’t confederate? We wish they were… but, still, a buff came through here and told us they made a nice sign of unity…They came from over in Newnan– it was a hospital town and someone must have left them behind…” We forced grins and nodded.

The icing was her comment about the rebuilt porch. “The original was wood, see, but wood rots and I thought it’d be nicer to have brick. I had my architect look into seeing if it was okay if I used brick instead of wood. It took him a few weeks but he came back and said that Robert E. Lee had a brick porch and I decided that if it was good enough for Bobby Lee it was good enough for me.”
THAT’s a sentence you don’t hear in Michigan very often.

Back on the road we laughed. “We just paid $6 to walk through someone’s house!,” realized Robby and I comforted him with the thought that, “Well… we just bought them each a Happy Meal. Think of it that way.”
I can’t reccommend the Museum– it has nothing to do with their kind hospitality or the odd assortment of their collection but everything to do with their local zoning board.

Keep your eyes peeled when you’re out driving around. You never know what you might find.

“Atlanta!”

You have to say, “Atlanta!” just like Scarlett when she realizes that she can get off the red, green earth of Tara and hightail it to the big city– as though a whole candy store has just popped up in front of you and everything is free… (and the shelves are full of Marathon Bars from my childhood– but that’s for another Blog…) Go on. Say it just like she did with your pert little chin suddenly up in the air and your eyes filled with sudden knowledge. (I’ll wait.)

So here I am in the South. (What’s a nice northern girl like me doing in a drawling place like this?) Husband Robby has a conference and I’ve joined him for the weekend to visit our southern relatives.

I did something today that I’ve never done on all our previous trips to Atlanta (and armed with the fact that I’ve even ate at a Hooter’s here– that’s pretty impressive…)– I went to the Margaret Mitchell House Museum. It’s a nice little set up. Orientation movie, photos of Margaret reproduced everywhere (quite the looker that Peggy), her apartment “the Dump” where she wrote the Mss for Gone With the Wind, and a gallery of memorabilia associated with GWTW. It was a big tour group. Not such a great way to see the place… but still, an enjoyable little busman’s holiday for me.

The weird part of the tour isn’t the glorification of the movie or Margaret’s book– both deserve a little notoriety… it’s the people that are creepy. One couple documented everything on what I can only imagine to be a brand new digital camera (he’s still holding it as though it might bite) while a rather large woman from Staten Island remarked loudly to her friend that, “THIS is why I named our son Ashley” (all I could think was, “Hey lady– that’s a cruel thing to do to a kid above the Mason-Dixon line… Did he survive childhood?”) and still another family babbled (and I think genuflected!?) in front of the case in their native Scandanavian tongues.

Come to think of it– the only person from the South I encountered was the woman who sold me a ticket. (A $12 ticket. But that’s okay. Support your museums.)

Anyhoo. I’ve still got the stupid theme from Tara running through my head and the name “David O. Selznick” on the brain. (And a really cool magnet of Scarlett’s dear “Mammy”– loved her. She stole the movie. “Hmph humph Hummmph!”)

Fiddle-dee-dee indeed.

Virginia Woolf was a freak

I came home tonight, let the puppy outside, then returned to call him back inside… only to have him run up to me with his little black face full of gray feathers. “What the?,” wondered me. Philbin quickly ran off to finish licking his feather chops while I investigated the yard. And there– by the glass porch doors, was the quiet little grey bird carcass. It seemed intact. (Apparently Philbin was going to pluck it and then grill it?) I hurry Philbin inside and scrub his little puppy face. (A real treat for him… He glares at me still.)
Then I go out to remove the corpse. Ugh.
This WOULD be the week that Rob would be away on a business trip. Yuck. I use the hoe and make it to the driveway before it slips off and falls with a sickening “plop” sound. I run in and grab the broom (now and forever an outside broom) and the dustpan (ditto) and manage to slide the bird onto the pan and then take it out to the curb.
And then I think of that scene from The Hours where Virginia Woolf lays down with the little dead bird and surrounds it with roses… Huh. I feel guilty. I go back inside and take the wilted peonies from the living room mantle and put them out on the Body. But I draw the line at laying with the little bird.
It’s 93 degrees outside.
It’ll bloat soon.

Spontaneous Human Kindness

This has been a good email day.
My little ebox (which I imagine to be red and somewhat battered) was full this morning with kind missives from far flung friends. Email is good. There is something about the written word that you can read and read and read without wearing it out that is magical. Tomorrow the same kind words will be there. And the next day. And the next day.

This weekend some of those far flung friends came over to my house. We sat outside on the deck around the lit firebox… with the tiki torches keeping the mosquitoes at bay and the backyard trees full of lanterns and tiny tea lights. (Martha Stewart has nothing on me in my backyard Fairy Land.) Fires are good for talking. And laughing. We told the same old stories (“I can’t believe we’re talking about spontaneous human combustion again!,” moaned one pal) and gently teased one another in a familiar, comfortable way– causing me to sigh happily that we are so easily able to slip back into the routines that not-so-far-flung friends take for granted.

Having them all under my roof for the night was a rare treat.
Having them all in my ebox is the next best thing.

Slow flying owl & typing monkeys

“Nobody said life was fair” is a bunky type of cliche. Somebody must have at some point. (Give the proverbial monkeys their typewriters and even they would eventually type out “Life is fair”…) Besides– why else would we all have such an injured reaction to being told life isn’t fair if we didn’t believe that it was (or should be).

The current injustice in my life is the speed of my owl. Back in February I pre-ordered “Harry Potter & the Order of the Pheonix” from Amazon.Uk and now– while the rest of America is reading the wretched version put out here I am forced to wait. (You might ask, “What is the difference? It’s in English– but oh! the difference is vast when you are reading it aloud– the American version has references to “Mom” instead of “Mum” and “schedules” instead of “timetables” and Hagrid loses a great deal of his goofy dialect.)

So I wait, scanning the skies for my laden owl– avoiding the pals who are already well into the book.
Stupid owls.
Stupid monkeys.

Uh… Hello?

Okay. So here I (we) go. My first Blog. Thank you for playing nicely by reading along… I feel a little like I’ve set up a lemonade stand on the Information Super Highway. So far I am only assured that good, kind Friend Wallis will brave pulling over for a glass. (Not to discount you– I’m sure you’re kind and good as well… Or extremely bored. Or researching “lemonade stand” or “Super Highway” or “glass”…) Anyway. I’m new at this. Be kind. And enjoy the lemonade. It’s free.