"Whatcha gonna write about in your column this week?" my galpals prodded me this weekend as they took me on lovely outings here and yonder for my birthday. "You gonna write about turning another year older?"
"Or about needing to dance with Ms. Clairol? Lands, your roots are showin'."
"Or about your exciting single nightlife of Netflix binging?"
It's possible I've had these friends past their expiration dates, with one such friendship going on 30 years now. But I'll have to keep them because they know too much to make them adversaries.
"Nah," I said in all seriousness. "I was thinking of writing about a question I read recently asking 'What makes you country?'"
The idea intrigued me because it just seems everyone knows what country looks like, but that's an outward reflection. This question was asking you personally to identify what it is that makes you -- your inner self, your attire, your home, your world -- feel country.
I'm often told I outwardly reflect my country upbringing in my choice of clothing, my home furnishings and, most notably, my manner of speaking. I'm told it isn't just the drawl but my directness and way of phrasing things, like saying "fixin' to" and "I reckon" and "I do declare" and "well, doesn't that just melt my butter."
This sounds like normal language to me, but they insist it isn't. They actually had me translate the movie "The Help" because they couldn't understand a word of it. I just shook my head. I thought Hollywood was finally speaking plain English.
What makes me feel most comforted by my country roots is coming home to the stack of cast-iron skillets always nested on top of the gas stove; the heavy weight of a quilt hand-stitched by my great-grandmother from scraps of aprons, shirts and dresses I remember her wearing; the feel of a flour sack towel gliding over Mason jars as I dry the dishes; the way my old clawfoot tub wraps around me and holds the heat of a hot bath for an hour or more; the knobby texture of my decades-old blue flannel shirt.
My boots always stand by the door, and my dog is always sitting by my side. My mama's milk glass vases are filled with flowers in my kitchen and her iron kettle with flowers in my garden.
These are a few of my favorite countrified things.
"Well OK, but we think it's your insulated pantyhose that make you country," my buddies chided back at me. "We want you to write about that."
So fine, I hereby confess that when I met up with my friends for my birthday celebration, I looked down and noticed something white on my thigh and crossing all the way into the bend of my knee. I reached down to wipe off whatever it was, only to find it wouldn't wipe off.
Unbeknownst to me, for heaven knows how long, a few twisted squares of toilet paper lay stuck beneath my hosiery. I'd been letting my Charmin show at church and all over tarnation that morning and early afternoon before meeting up with my galpals.
I do declare. Insulated pantyhose. It'll be all the rage before long, y'all. No telling what I'll invent when my next birthday rolls around in three years.
Lisa Kelley is a writer, master gardener, animal lover and all-around good ol' Southern gal who also happens to practice law and mediate cases in downtown Bentonville. Email her at [email protected].
NAN Our Town on 03/19/2015