Vintage Beauty Shops

“I think that the most important thing a woman can have- next to talent, of course- is her hairdresser.” ― Joan Crawford

“People always ask me how long it takes to do my hair. I don’t know, I’m never there.” ― Dolly Parton

“Beware of her fair hair, for she excels
All women in the magic of her locks; 
And when she winds them round a young man's neck, 
She will not ever set him free again.” 
― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“She could hear her hair growing.” 

― Arundhati Roy, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness

“Maybe the hairs on my head were numbered" she went on with a sudden serious sweetness "but nobody could ever count my love for you".” 

― O. Henry

“There will be those who love you for your hair and those who love the beauty of your mind and those who adore the warmth of your heart. but there will be those who will leave you for not conforming to their type of hair, mind and heart. And there will be those who will live/die to see your bad hair days, derailed mind, and broken heart. but what matters most is Who You Are” 

― Goitsemang Mvula

“Her hair was full of lights” 

― Anaïs Nin

“she's got
oceans
tucked away
in her hair
poems swim
under her skin.”
― Sanober Khan, A Thousand Flamingos

“A woman who cuts her hair is about to change her life.”
― Coco Chanel

Why I Love Funeral Homes

I went outside to walk my dogs the other morning and the fog was so thick, I could barely see to the end of my driveway. And it's a short driveway. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that the roses on the bush in front of my house were still covered with dew.

As a southern girl who grew up going to a lot of funerals, it took all of .03 seconds before I found myself humming the classic hymn "In the Garden." Depending on where and how you were raised, you may or may not know it.

I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses, says the first line. Illustrated perfectly by the dew clinging to the blossoms on my knockout bush.

And the voice I hear falling on my ear, the son of God discloses....as a kid this line always made me picture the voice as a string of letters and symbols literally falling from the sky.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me...this line was fodder for many a corny preacher joke heard during my childhood. The dramatic way the words are sung, and the fact that southerners are notorious for stringing our words together makes it sound like you are in fact singing "Andy walks with me, Andy talks with me." And all the corny preachers in the south said: Can anyone guess God's first name? [the punchline is supposed to be Andy...get it?]

This song, said to have been written in 1913 by Charles A. Miles, was a staple at southern funerals of my childhood. Along with "Beulah Land," it was one of those songs you just knew would be played.

In the funerals of my childhood, held less frequently at churches and more often at local funeral homes, there was a special group of funeral singers. Likely a small quartet of willing church choir members, “In the Garden” was always part of their repertoire.

I always found it interesting that the singers didn't stand up front in the funeral home chapel, but were instead in the back or in an adjoining room, out of sight entirely.

You could hear their voices, but never actually saw them. I guess this is because it was supposed to have been less of a performance and more of a soundtrack for the occasion.

Funerals never freaked me out as a kid. They still don't. I kind of liked them.

In seventh grade, I was best friends with a girl whose family ran a local funeral home. I guess because funerals are all hours, and all different times of year, it was more convenient for them to live on-site. My friend lived with her parents in an apartment that was above the funeral home, up a set of wrought iron stairs around the side of the building.

This never seemed weird to me at all. Her aunt and uncle had the adjoining apartment and she could go back and forth as she pleased. It created a real sense of community and I actually thought it was wonderful. They always made me feel so welcome when I visited.

Sometimes we went down the back staircase into the funeral home to say hi to her uncle. This wasn't creepy or anything to me. I found it very peaceful.

There was a big room where all the sample caskets were displayed. I had been there before, with my great-grandparents when they did their pre-arrangement. Pre-arranging funerals was a big deal in my family. My great-grandparents knew exactly what they wanted and made sure their wishes were carried out, right down to what preachers were to speak and what songs were to be sung.

In fact it got to be kind of a problem because after they chose the ministers they wanted to hold their funerals, many began to die off and they had to move down their list of alternates.

My great-grandma’s faith, Freewill Baptist, dictated that a woman’s hair was her crowning glory, so naturally she even had special instructions about who was to fix her hair and how nobody was supposed to cut it. She wanted a baby blue casket, "to match her eyes." We didn't try to remind her that her eyes would likely be closed at that point, but oh well.

One of the first times I encountered death as a child and old enough to understand it, was when my great-great uncle Willie passed away. It was 1988 and I was six years old. We hadn't been close but he was one of those people who was just there for as long as I could remember. Not part of my daily life, but always a fixture at family reunions or other special gatherings.

I remember hearing my parents talking about the fact that he had died. "Wait, what?" Uncle Willie died, my mom said. This news hit me like a Mack Truck. I burst into tears, feeling sad all the way down into my toes. We had been sitting in our car, in the driveway of my grandparents house on Walnut Street. I couldn't believe something so awful could happen. And what’s more, I couldn’t believe how sad I felt about it. Even at age six, I realized I was growing up.

There'd be other deaths. Extended family members and family friends. My parents didn't always take me to the funeral home, but many times they did. And I liked it. Funeral homes could be such peaceful places. And I had such a big extended family, it was always like a reunion of sorts.

"You're growing like a weed," they'd say. "Such a grow’d up girl. I wish't we all got to see one another more than just at funerals."

And the food. There was nothing like funeral home food at the small town southern funeral homes of my childhood. Big ol' trays of cut up veggies and fruit, sandwich platters and buckets of fried chicken, giant bags of Ruffles potato chips and tubs of sour cream and onion dip. And desserts, both homemade and store-bought. Every different kind of Coke you could drink, even Pepsi and Dr. Pepper which we never had at home. You could eat whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted to.

And there were kind people who wanted to do nice things for you to make you feel better because you were sad. Honey, can I get ‘chew a cold drank? Well, I do believe you can.

And the Kleenex! At funerals home of my youth, there were boxes of Kleenex everywhere! On virtually every surface, near a little always full bowl of mints you could help yourself to. And not just the bright yellow Kroger brand box with the thin, scratchy facial tissues inside. These were thick, plush pillowy sheets of softness, housed in boxes with beautiful designs or perhaps even under a brass tissue box cover. As a kid, Kleenex was much too much of a luxury at my house and something my parents never bought. If you had a sinus infection or a bout of allergies, you'd carry around a roll of toilet paper from room to room.

Of course as I got older and more close relatives and friends started to die, funerals were not something to look forward to. When I was born, all my grandparents and great-grandparents were still alive. Once I hit high school, my great grands started to pass away. One by one, each year or so. Those funerals were much tougher...not only because I loved them dearly and they had been such integral parts of my life, but also because on one particular side of the family there were some strained relationships. By the time my granny passed away, one faction of the family wasn't exactly friendly to the other and it created some awkwardness at the funeral. But we muddled through.

I guess in a way a funeral is like the last thing you can really do for a person. This is why I stood, along with other members of my family, for hours on end in a receiving line as hundreds of people attended a visitation and paid their respect for my great grandpa. An old time country preacher who had lived in the area all of his 96 years, he knew everybody. And he was from a time when people still went to funerals, or at least to visitation. When just showing up really meant something.

We stood there at the front of the chapel, near his open casket, letting people file through, shake our hands, and hug our necks for hours. And tell us how good he looked.

No matter how tired I felt, or how much my feet hurt in my pointy toed shoes, it was so comforting to have all those people tell me what my grandfather had meant to them. To hear them recount stories of how he’d baptized their father, or married their parents, or held their own grandpa’s funeral. And how he had always been there for them. And how they just wanted us to know that it made a difference in their lives.

And the entire time, I thought "This is exactly what he would have wanted me to do. What he would have expected us to do." And it was something I could do for him. So that’s what I did.

Death doesn't have to be scary or weird. Even though it's sad. And funeral homes don't have to be creepy places. Sometimes they can bring real comfort. Especially when it feels like the one you loved is being honored and celebrated. When there’s a loss of somebody who meant the world to you, it’s okay to want to mark the event in some way. To come together with others who knew and loved the dearly departed. To cry together, tell stories together and just remember. And I guess for me that’s what funeral homes are for. A place where the life of somebody who mattered is recognized.

[image via Library of Congress Digital Repository] 

Happiness = Things X Meaningful ^ Repeated

You know how in movies or on television, people in psychiatrist's offices are always lying on couches? That has never been my experience in real life. Although, technically, I guess I've never been to a psychiatrist.

When I refer to therapy or counseling from my own experience, I'm talking about psychologists. I just wanted to make it clear in case you were wondering.

During adulthood, I have seen a handful of counselors and they have always been psychologists, which means they can't prescribe medication.

The first time I went to a therapist was with my mom. It was during my teen years and I think she was worried about me because of some things that were going on with my biological dad. I don't remember much about the counseling session, but mainly just that I was pretty guarded seeing as how I was a teenager and my mom was in the room.

After college when I found myself working for a university, my employer's health insurance included something called an EAP, or employee assistance program. It provided six sessions with a counselor, chosen from an approved list. I took advantage of that for awhile and saw a couple of different counselors but never really felt like I connected with either of them.

Before our wedding, my now husband and I had a few short counseling sessions with our pastor. It was all well and good, but our time was limited and it was mainly to get a discount on our marriage license.

It wasn't until our second year of marriage when things had gotten, well, frankly quite challenging that we decided to see a couple's counselor. It was probably the best decision we could have made. Our counselor was a really great guy, thoughtful with a calm demeanor. And he helped us work through so many important things. Our marriage is stronger and happier thanks to his input and wisdom.

We've been fortunate to get our counseling through a local university clinic, whose staff is made up of students doing their clinical work in the PhD program and payment is on a sliding scale. If you have always wanted to seek counseling for one reason or another, please don't let cost be a reason not to. Whether you have an employer provided EAP or maybe there's a college in your area with a similar program to what we have, there are options out there.

And please don't let shame or fear keep you from seeking help. Sure, people might judge you. People judge each other for all sorts of ridiculous reasons. That shouldn't stand between you and the possibility of getting help.

Last year I was diagnosed with Scoliosis and now I go to the chiropractor. There are plenty of folks who think chiropractic care is all hooey and snake oil. But it has helped me.

There is no shame in seeking help of any kind. And that includes counseling.

I'm sure there are people, maybe even some who know me, reading this thinking they would NEVER go to a therapist, let alone tell anyone about it.

Well you just might be surprised how much it could help you.

Case in point...

I was talking to my therapist this week about an experience I had with a local nonprofit. I saw a call on Facebook that this organization was looking for volunteers and I was available and decided to pitch in and help. It was no big deal and I am not trying to brag on myself but I was amazed at how happy I felt during and after the time I spent.

Like this feeling of being able to do something small and make a difference in someone's life. It was incredible.

And my therapist said that it made perfect sense. He said it's common for people to think that in order to be happy, we have to focus on making happiness our goal.

But you can't just try to be happy. It doesn't work that way.

Then he said something I know I'll always remember.

Happiness comes as the result of doing meaningful things.

How many times have we tried to do less than meaningful things with the end goal of happiness? But those things didn't produce the desired feeling we had hoped to achieve. And we end up feeling like our efforts, or even worse...ourselves, are a complete and total failure. This can be kind of a kick in the gut.

So what's the secret to happiness? I'm becoming more and more convinced that it's simply finding out what those meaningful things are for each of us. And doing them.

What's meaningful to me might seem silly to you and what's meaningful to you might seem like a chore to me. But we all get to have our own unique brand of meaningful. Whether that's self-care, doing for others, creating, physical activity, travel or whatever. And maybe (probably) it's a combination of all these.

I've always said that one of the things I love most about the south is that we put a lot of meaning into everything we do. And exploring that meaning, including telling the stories of those who are no longer here to tell them, is one of my favorite things. It has meaning to me. This blog is my meaningful thing. Not because of post clicks or unique visitors but because it's a small way I can add something encouraging to the world. It's a way I can spill the beans and remind people (maybe you) that we're not alone here. We're all in this together.

If you've found yourself lately in the pursuit of happiness, maybe change your focus. Consider embarking on a new journey....in the pursuit of meaning. And I'm betting that along the way, happiness will find you.

Advice for Future Grown-Up Girls

There are no do-overs in life. We can't go back and change the past, as much as we'd like to. Looking back at certain periods of time, particularly my teenage years, there are things I wish I had done differently. Things I wish I would have known.

Would it have mattered? I'm not sure.

I'm currently listening to Drew Barrymore's memoir "Wildflower" in audio book format. I love it when an author reads his or her audio book because it feels like an opportunity to have him or her tell his story directly to me.

In the book, she addresses (albeit briefly) the rise of social media and how crazy it is to be able to share photos with millions of people with a single click. I follow my younger girl cousins on social media and enjoy feeling like I have a bit of inside scoop on their lives, even though I don't get to see them very often. I wonder how hard it is for them to be girls coming of age in our current time. One of my favorite girl cousins to follow is Elliott, a precocious rising sixth grader whose posts never fail to make me smile. From her love of elephants to her victories on the volleyball court, to her adventures with friends doing typical middle school girl things.

This morning, my girl bestie from high school sent me a Facebook message with a clip from the film Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion. She said she missed those simpler times in life when just watching a favorite movie for the umpteenth time was all it took to enjoy yourself. I miss those things too.

Some experts say that kids today don't know how to connect with people in real life because they are digesting each and every experience through screens. Others would argue that social media has made us more connected than ever before. I hope that's true. I hope young girls understand the importance of the friendship connections they are forming at this time of their lives.

The years will come faster and faster, and soon those carefree days will seem like a dream, something you kind of remember and hold dear but also something that feels so distant and removed that it might not have happened at all.

I wish someone had shared this with the young girl version of myself. If you are a fourteen year old girl who happens to be reading this, or fifteen or sixteen or even eighteen, there's still time for you. Take this bit of advice from someone who knows:

Put down your phone and really look at your best friend's face. I mean really look. Memorize the way her eyes crinkle just a tiny bit when she smiles. Hear her laugh, with its ever ebullient cadence and write the sounds of it on your heart. See the way she sits, cross legged in the back of the school auditorium, eating a plain turkey and cheese sandwich from Subway. Never forget how important of a role you have in her life, as her confidante and cheerleader. One day you might be in her wedding. Perhaps you'll be in the room as her first baby is born. These magical moments are amazing and unforgettable, but somehow they aren't quite the same as just being a couple of girls, 15 and 16, driving around your small southern town in an old Chevy Blazer, smoking Marlboro Lights out the window. Do not smoke (Marlboro Lights or otherwise).

The next time you are hanging out with your best guy friend, take your earbuds out and really listen to him. Watch the outline of his profile as he drives you to Sonic for a Route 44 Cherry Limeade made with Diet Coke instead of Sprite. For the record Diet Coke is terrible for you, but life goes on. Memorize his mannerisms, the way he crosses his arms over his chest, in his Gap sweater, leaning ever so slightly to put more weight on one foot than the other. The next time you are standing with him in front of a vending machine, as he is buying his post-lunch bag of Sour Patch Kids, take in every sight and sound of the moment, because one day you'll want to re-live it. Or all the times you pull your car into his parents' driveway, going to pick him up for some evening of teenage adventures. Take a moment to enjoy the fact that his parents are inside, waiting to greet you warmly, his dad jokingly asking you to "feed his son something and bring him home alive."

These are the moments that you'll miss most when you're stuck watching a corporate webinar or attending a conference with a plated lunch and keynote speaker.

One day you won't live in a house with your parents, where your best friend just naturally comes over and lets herself in the back door. One day you won't get together weekly with your best friend to watch Dawson's Creek and eat cheese fries. One day you will wake up and your to-do list will include things like get a watch battery, call the IRS and straighten out how your quarterly tax payment was applied to the wrong year, buy toilet paper or a broom and take that bag of stuff in the garage to Goodwill.

Maybe you'll move away while your best friend stays in your hometown, married and raising a beautiful family. Maybe your friend will move across the country and you'll mean to visit him but thirteen or fourteen years will go by and you won't be able to believe you haven't made that trip.

Of course you'll form other friendships along the way. Dearly dearly beloved friendships. Friends who become family. Friends who know the grown-up you and are there for you when you need a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on. Don't take these for granted either.

But it's those first friendships...the ones that form while you are still forming. They are worth more than all the likes, all the hearts, all the regrams. And I'd hate to think anybody missed out on that because they were too busy looking at a screen.

Oh, and one more thing. Have as many sleepovers as you can. Grown-ups are supposed to be able to do whatever they want but sleepovers never seem to make it on the list.

How to have the perfect wedding

The forecast in Knoxville today was dark and rainy. We woke up to cloudy skies, which aren't that unusual for a Saturday in late April. The fourth Saturday in April is significant for me because two years ago on a Saturday just like today, my southern beau and I said our wedding vows in front of a crowd of our nearest and dearest people.

Weddings are special no matter who it is, but for us, after dating as long as we did (eleven years!), it felt like something we'd been waiting to happen for so long.

Just like today, on that fourth Saturday in April two years ago, we also woke up to cloudy skies and even some serious storm warnings. I know you can't control the weather, but nobody dreams of a dreary, stormy day for her wedding. I was already feeling those wedding day jitters. It wasn't cold feet, just a bit of anxiety because there were so many unknowns. It's not like we could really anticipate every little thing and even though we'd rehearsed the night before, there were still so many moving parts to the event.

I haven't written much about our wedding here on the blog, which was kind of a surprise I guess, even to me. I figured that the wedding festivities would give me lots of good material. Perhaps I just got caught up in all of it and wasn't able to process everything that was happening at the time. Two years later, I'm more able to look back on it.

I know it sounds trite and is the worst of all cliches, but my wedding was perfect. Seriously. I mean sure there are a few small things I wish had been different. But not many.

I wish my closest college friend Christina had been able to attend, but she was unable to travel because of complications with her pregnancy. Thankfully she's now the mom of a beautiful little boy so it all worked out, but she was so missed. I wish my paternal grandparents had been there. Health issues and some other complicated things kept them from attending, but ultimately I understood the situation. And I wish my husband and I had taken one good photo with the gorgeous 1958 Rolls Royce my parents got for us to leave the church in, but alas that was not meant to be.

I'm sure there were other tiny hiccups I can't remember. But there were so many wonderful things about it, it was sort of like a dream. I don't know what I did to deserve such a truly special, incredible day.

So maybe you're planning a wedding of your own. Or helping someone you love plan theirs. I can't make any promises, but here are my best tips to make it practically perfect.

Choose a venue that has significance for you, not because it's the fanciest or the most popular. Our ceremony was held at a beautiful old church, rich with history and nestled into the countryside. Our reception took place at an amazing venue nearby and it just so happens to be operated by dear friends. They took care of every detail, down to the absolutely perfect flowers and made from scratch tomato sandwiches.

Don't make your bridesmaids/groomsmen wear ridiculous clothing. We've all been in a wedding where we were forced to wear something that was just awful. Don't be that person. Nobody really cares what those people are wearing. Let them be comfortable in a style that flatters them.

When it comes to cake, buttercream is the name of the game. I know, I know, fondant is beautiful. But don't you want your guests to enjoy the cake too? I'm something of a cake snob and I am convinced that not only is buttercream more delicious but it's actually prettier too. My cake was perfect. Beautiful and delicious. My design inspiration? This cake. I mean, go big or go home, right?

Don't waste time and money on wedding favors that people will end up throwing away. When my maternal grandparents got married in 1957, they didn't have a reception but ended up stopping on the way to their honeymoon for a dinner of Dr. Pepper and fried pies. In honor of them, we gave our guests homemade fried pies as favors. They went fast and I didn't hear anything except rave reviews.

Surround yourself with people you love, who love you. I think part of what made my wedding feel so wonderful is that it was truly a celebration of all the people who have loved me in my life. Who have supported me and cheered me on through so many stages. And my husband too. Don't feel compelled to invite a bunch of people because you feel like you should. 

Spring for the wedding video. Yes, if you get a fancy videographer, it's expensive. This isn't an option for everybody. I get that. But no matter what your budget is, find some way to document your day on video. You will love your photos forever, but there's just something about having footage of the day that I promise you will treasure. I wasn't going to do it until I saw a wedding video for a friend of mine from elementary school. In just a few short minutes, her video captured the essence of the day and was a beautiful memento, especially for those folks who weren't able to attend.

Marry the right person. As I type these words, it's storming in Knoxville. Unlike my perfect day two years, the sky today has not turned blue, sunny and cloudless. But tucked safely in our little house, while I sit here typing on the computer, my husband and our two dogs are napping nearby.

Unlike our wedding day, these past two years have been far from perfect. I don't even think we've had one perfect day out of these past 730, although the second year of marriage has been better than the first. Hopefully each year after will be better than the last. It helps me enjoy the present and look forward to the future.

But we're in it to win it. True blue, stuck like glue. Better than enything (I know it's misspelled...it's an inside joke). This is a decision we both made and that's that. It has nothing to do with our wedding. That was just the buttercream icing on the giant cake.

*All photos courtesy Zach & Sarah Photography - an awesome couple who helped capture our day. *

The Best Revenge

Whoever said "living well" is the best revenge obviously never ran into her ex-boyfriend on a humid, July day at Wal-Mart, hair frizzed to the max, wearing a stained Goodwill t-shirt and two different socks. That would have been me. Mind you, it was a long time ago because I have had the same boyfriend since 2004 and he's now my husband.

I was never one of those people who dated recreationally. I had crushes in high school, and I was once asked to accompany a sweet, but awkward boy to the homecoming dance, but it wasn't particularly memorable. My prom date was my best friend (thank goodness) and after graduation, I went off to college with the hope of finding true love. It just took me a few years to do so.

But for one fateful season between my freshman and sophomore years of college, while back in my hometown working a summer job, I sort of dated a guy. Mainly we just spent a couple of months talking and hanging out on his front porch swing on muggy Tennessee nights, eating atomic fireballs. Our first official date was to the sno-cone shop, aptly named "Sno-Daze" and over the course of the summer, we saw exactly one movie together at the theater, The Fast and the Furious. 

Ours was not true love, or really any love at all. Just attraction and infatuation. I should have known there was a shelf-life to that type of thing, but having had absolutely no experience in that arena, I was shocked when he stopped taking my calls about a month into the fall semester.

So, let's just say that when I bumped into him at Wal-Mart the following summer, clad in grungy clothes, with my mom in tow, I feel certain it didn't induce some type of woeful regret on his part. I tried to put on a devil-may-care attitude, but the whole thing just gave me a stomach ache.

You see, I come from a long line of people who cannot. let. things. go. Figuratively and literally. This applies to our feelings about situations as well as items we have come to own. I am incredibly jealous of anyone and everyone who can simply move on. That just isn't me. I will hash and re-hash the same scenarios for years, often never getting any closer to understanding the how and why.

Sometimes I jokingly refer to myself as Nancy Drew, but in truth, I'm more an Encyclopedia Brown...getting all the facts down in my trusty notepad and solving the case during dinner, sometimes before dessert.

But so many times in life, we just don't get the facts we need to solve anything. This is a common underlying theme for me. I'm reminded of a quote from my all-time favorite TV show, Sex & the City when Miranda says, "Carrie, we can analyze this for years and never know the answer. I mean, they still don't know who killed Kennedy."

I'll never know why my summer fling dumped me at the end of August without any explanation. It's just one of the many, many things I will never know. And it's not something I really ever think about...I just figured you'd get a kick out of my embarrassing nostalgia.

Are you ever afraid there are other questions that will never be answered for you? Important questions. Questions that you feel you deserve answers to.

Like why somebody who was supposed to love you for much longer than a summer vanishes from your life without any reason. Or why somebody did or said something that hurt you, but can't or won't explain their motives. Or why people can't or won't simply acknowledge things that might give you some peace. Even if it's not the explanation you dreamed of.

Living well is not the best revenge because no revenge is good. You think it's going to make you feel better, but it never does. Being happy with your own life helps. Not because you're shaking your proverbial fist in an "I'll show you" sort of way, but just being genuinely happy with things. There's a peace that comes from having a life you want to focus on, with people you care for, and things you feel passionate about. Before too long, there's no room (or time or energy) to hold those grudges that once took up so much of your space.

That doesn't mean you won't always wonder about the questions left unanswered. But hopefully they won't keep you up at night.

Floss more: A letter from my 80 year old self

*For the past several weeks, I've been reading "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron. It's more than a book, it's a guide to creativity. And it's not just for artists, but writers, actors....anyone really. Each week, you read a chapter and complete a series of exercises as you work through the process of more fully revealing your creative self. One of the exercises for last week was to imagine what you might be like at age 80, and then write yourself a letter from your 80 year old perspective. Below is mine. Apparently, my 80 year old self says bad words. I hope it doesn't offend you. 

My dear, darling, glorious, beautiful child,

I say child because you are a child. The child version of me.

Oh but you're thinking "I'm no child. I'm 34 years old. That's old enough to have applied for a passport, graduated from college, traveled to Europe, bought a condo and a house, gotten married, gotten jobs, gotten fired from jobs, contributed to a 401k, filed taxes, started a Blog. Made friends, lost friends. Watched people that you used to babysit for have kids of their own." 

That may be so, but none the less, still a child you are. When you get to be my age everyone is a child. Except for the 90 year olds. And you're still a child to them.

This is what I want for you as you go through the rest of your life: Do not give a f***. Seriously.

One day, you'll wonder why you wasted so much time caring about so many things that did not matter at all. Stop that. Care only about things that matter most.

Stand by your principles, but kick them to the curb if they cause you to hurt or alienate another person.

Take the stairs every chance you get. When you get to be my age, taking the stairs is a privilege but you have to earn it by taking the stairs a lot throughout your life.

Only wear clothes that you love. You might die in what you're wearing so you should want it to be fabulous.

Only eat food that you love. That sad sad limpy lettuce and mealy tomato with a little ball of tuna salad covered in plastic wrap? Throw that shit at the wall. Eat macaroons. And pie crust. Drink beautiful green juice and sometimes wine.

Be only with people you love. Love everyone you're with, always.

Make every person you're with feel like they're the only person in the world that matters in that moment.

Smile at people who frown at you.

Don't get mad when your husband spills an entire drink in the console of your car. You won't remember that one day.

Don't get mad when he doesn't load the dishwasher right or doesn't unload it in a prompt manner.

Don't get mad when the meal you thought was going to be wonderful turns out to be gross. Life is all about practicing and cooking is one of those things you get to practice over and over.

Try to spend time with people who aren't going to live as long as you. One day you will miss having people around who have known you since before you were born.

Make friends of all ages so there will be lots of young people around you when you're old. Don't limit your friendships to people you have everything in common with or who are the same age as you. Diversify your portfolio.

Travel as much as you can. See as many things and places as you can. And then come home and love every minute of that too.

Nobody gives a shit how big your house is. Nobody cares what kind of car you drive. Correction, there are people who care about these things. Don't waste your precious limited time on them. Bless their hearts.

Love what you love and surround yourselves with things that bring you real Joy. Figure out what those things are. Figure out what real Joy is.

Don't limit yourself to just one dog. It will die and break your heart and you'll need another one to come into your life. And when that one dies (because it will), get another one. And then another one. And then another one. And know that all your furry friends will be waiting for you one day and they'll have had time to get to know each other so that when you finally arrive it'll be like one big party.

Value your time, your abilities and what you bring to the table. Don't be afraid to say this doesn't work for me. Don't be afraid to say I want more of this.

Know your limitations and push yourself Beyond them.

Learn what helps you when you're feeling sad and make sure to keep some of that on hand.

When you're feeling happy (I mean really happy), stop in the moment and say to yourself "Let's remember this feeling. This feeling of being completely and utterly happy. Just like on your wedding day."

Don't look at people you don't understand with a look of disdain or judgement. Don't have disdain or judgment for people you don't understand.

Believe that in the end, everything will work out. It will.

Gaze at your unwrinkly face in the mirror, and know that it is neither something you earned nor something you get to keep.

Don't roll your eyes when there's a slow walking older person in front of you somewhere. One day that will be you and it sucks when some young person is behind you huffing and rolling his eyes.

Promise me that for the rest of your life, not another bite of that fake butter/margarine crap will ever touch your lips. Same for the fake sugar substitutes. Never again.

Floss a lot more than you do now.

Do more yoga.

Drink more water.

Don't get upset when you scratch your glasses, or mess up your perfect manicure. These little things, while annoying, will never make it into our memoir.

Know that the most difficult people are usually the ones who feel the most misunderstood. This is not an excuse for their bad behavior, but it's a good reminder that the way they act isn't who they are. On the flip side, don't feel pressure to spend time with difficult people. You don't owe them anything.

In the beginning, you think life is going to be so long. And with each passing year, the weeks seem to fly faster and faster. In the end, even if you live to be 100 or older, it's all just a few mere seconds my dear.

You'll have moments when you feel like you've finally figured it all out. Don't get too comfortable in these moments, as they are usually followed by days, or even weeks (and sometimes years) of feeling like everything is topsy turvy.

Take each day as it comes, with the new challenges and joys that it presents. Keep on loving. Yourself. Your people. Your community. That's why you were put here. The rest is just extra.

To be a writer, you must listen.

“Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.” ― Eudora Welty, One Writer's Beginnings

To be a writer, you must first be a listener. More than that, you must be a watcher too. There's only so much inside you. The rest must come from around you. And before you can truly tell a story, you have to understand it all the way to your core. 

Remembering is like listening backwards, which can be hard to do. This is why I like to hear the same stories told over and over. Like the one about my grandpa hitchhiking to Laramie, Wyoming. 

Born in Texas, my grandpa moved to Oak Ridge, Tennessee when he was a boy. There he discovered one of his first loves: football. In his senior year of high school, he was invited to several colleges for recruiting visits, including Auburn, Texas Tech and the University of Wyoming. He and a couple buddies set out during Easter break to visit the schools. 

Recruits were given money for bus tickets, lodging and so-forth but my grandpa and his buddies decided they would keep the money and hitchhike instead. It's hard for me to imagine a group of three high school students hitchhiking 1400 miles one way, but in 1953 I guess it wasn't that big of a deal. 

I've heard this story told so many times, I know it well and can anticipate what parts are coming next. But each time, something new comes to light. That's why I never tire of hearing it. 

And this is only one of the stories he lived. One tiny sliver of the pie of his life. 

There are so many things I want to write about, as a self-proclaimed champion for stories that deserve to be told. But unless I have the person's exact words, I'm going to be guilty of telling them from my own perspective. 

We are told to honor our father and mother so that our days may be long on the Earth. The best way we can honor the ones who came before us is to tell their stories. And the only way we can do justice to someone else's story is to know it inside and out. Thus, we have to listen.

One Perfect Day

Do you ever have one of those days that just feels like one for the record books, in a good way? It's not like anything particularly monumental happened, but then again, maybe it did. 

Good Friday was just such a day for me. 

It started with a breakfast date with one of my dearest friends. What is it about feeling heard AND understood by someone that just makes life better? If you have someone who listens to you and gets you, you're pretty lucky. I definitely am. 

Then it was on to my hometown, where the beau and I had lunch with an old friend who is performing part of our marriage ceremony. Some of the time was spent catching up, and some was spent just chatting about marriage in general and what it all means. It's nice to be able to connect with someone who knew you at age 14 and still loves you in spite of it! 

Later, I got a wonderful visit from the mother of my preschool bestie. My friend lives in California now, but I've remained close with his family through the years and it was such a treat to visit with his mom and catch up. We have a lot of common interests and having an uninterrupted hour to discuss them was heavenly. 

Then it was off to the hairdresser for a trial run of my wedding day hair-do. I have to admit, this was the first time I've ever had my hair professionally styled....I wasn't sure what to expect. But the stylist came highly recommended and the entire experience was great. We settled on a style that I really liked and I got more comfortable with the whole veil scenario (which is kind of awkward the first time). 

Then my mom (who I rarely get to spend quality time with) and I hung out for a bit and ended up attending a dance recital for my other bff's 8 year old daughter. 

As she took the stage for the first time, I thought about the day she was born. My friend had invited me to be in the delivery room and it was one of the most incredible experiences of my life. New life coming into the world. Somebody who just moments before hadn't been part of your reality, and then poof, there they are. As I watched her little personality shine on stage, my eyes filled up with tears. I squeezed my friend's hand to let her know just what a special moment this was.  

I thought about how it hadn't been that long ago we were just silly teenagers in high school. So much of the past 15 years has been a blur, from graduating high school to college and my twenties. Maybe it's because I'm getting married or maybe it's because I'm approaching my mid-thirties but I feel like I've hit a big wall in some ways. Like I finally realize life is just about the people who matter to us. And I don't want to miss anything important in the lives of those folks who are important to me. 

Is this normal? Do other people figure this out much earlier and I'm just a late bloomer? You don't have to answer...these are just hypothetical questions. However, if you have any wisdom to impart, please feel free to share! 

Have you ever had a day like this? When all things point you towards a feeling of wholeness and you are convinced you could die happy right there on the spot? 

A Job Well Done

Do you ever feel like what you're doing doesn't matter? Do you think about the way you spend your days, your hours, your minutes, and what it all means?

Sometimes I think we try too hard to see the big picture and other times we can't see it big enough. One of the things I love most about the south is how we put so much meaning into everything we do, but maybe this also serves as a stumbling block.

Nothing is ever as simple as what it seems.

I have a friend who is always pushing me to do more with this blog. It's just her nature to be a pusher...and thank goodness for it because don't we all need someone like that in our lives? She has grand ideas and big dreams for me and Southern Belle Simple....whether that looks like writing a book down the road, or something else.

And I have grand ideas and big dreams for Southern Belle Simple too. Sometimes.

And sometimes I just want to go about my business writing a little blog in this teensy tiny corner of the Internet. And who cares if anyone reads it or not?

When I spent some time with my friend recently, she was doing her usual pushing (seriously, it's all coming from a place of love) and I pushed back a little, saying to her that I don't care about taking things to the next level...what if I'm perfectly happy just doing my thing?

My grandpa went to work at age 16 for the Kroger grocery store in my small hometown, where he was started out sweeping floors. Over the never nearly 40 years, he worked his way up to being the head butcher. He went to work every day and cut meat. There were folks in the town who came to him specifically because of the way he met their butchering needs. In fact, the grandfather of one of my dearest friends never let a chance pass to tell me how my grandpa always took care of him at Kroger. And of course my grandpa remembered his order exactly, an eye of round roast.

There was nothing flashy or glamorous about my grandpa's daily routine. I'm sure he never got paid what he was worth and I'm sure he didn't get any real perks. But I know he took pride in doing a job well done. And that was enough for him.

From him, I learned the importance of hustling, that is, working hard to seize every opportunity that comes along. While his career certainly had its challenges, I am pretty sure he had a feeling of accomplishment in serving others and making sure they had what they needed.

My grandpa's job wasn't who he was, it was just something he did. And even though he did it well, it didn't define him as a person.

But nowadays, so often it feels like we are defined by what we do. Or more often, what other people think about what we do. I've been caught on that hamster wheel for sure.

Sometimes I think about just how insignificant I am....and then other days I feel so burdened to try and make a difference with this great opportunity I've been given.

There's honor to be had in doing a job well done. Even if it sometimes seems small and insignificant.

I like to think that when we're born, there's a small space for us in the world. And as we grow and become who we are meant to be, we will stretch out into that space, filling it and hopefully pushing past its boundaries to really challenge ourselves.

Life goes by so fast. The longer I'm alive, the less I realize I understand. And that's okay.

Whatever happens, if it means something to you, it matters.

Such a place as fairyland

“There is such a place as fairyland - but only children can find the way to it. And they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way. One bitter day, when they seek it and cannot find it, they realize what they have lost; and that is the tragedy of life. On that day the gates of Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over. Henceforth they must dwell in the common light of common day. Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again; and blessed are they above mortals. They, and only they, can bring us tidings from that dear country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles. The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland.” 

― L.M. Montgomery, The Story Girl

Memories of College Days Gone By: Transportation Woes & Blinky

The other morning I found myself stuck behind a school bus while hurrying to a business meeting. It wasn't just any ordinary school bus. The bus I was stuck behind happened to be a University of Tennessee transit bus, one out of a fleet of many like it that zips around campus taking students to and from class or wherever glamorous places they happen to be going.

I found myself reminiscing about my own college days and feeling a tiny bit bitter because we didn't have such fancy (or reliable) transportation.

8 a.m. class on the other side of campus? Back then, it meant waking up extra early and hoofing it [a fancy term for walking]. Nowadays students probably have an app on their smartphones that alerts them to when the bus is coming so they don't have to spend even an extra minute waiting in the elements.

I'll never forget my cousin, who was older by six years, telling me about her first day of college experience. She got up early and put on a cute pair of sandals with her linen walking shorts (people, it was 1994). She said by the time she got to class, she was a disheveled mess complete with blisters, sweaty hair, and other war wounds.

I vowed never to experience this during my college days, but probably took it to the other extreme by wearing stretchy pants and t-shirts way too frequently. Once, while eating lunch with a group of girls from my sorority, a friend glanced my way and asked me, "Didn't you wear that shirt yesterday?"

Without missing a beat, my roommate piped up and said "Yeah, and she slept in it too." Not my finest fashion (or hygiene) moment.

But back to the issue of transportation. It kind of makes me feel like a grandma or grandpa with the proverbial story of walking to school up hill both ways in the snow. "In my day, there weren't any high falutin' buses. We had to walk to class (uphill both ways)."

The thing is, walking was good for us. I actually miss all the walking I did in college. And I enjoyed getting to walk with people, and talk to them while we walked. Nobody had his or her phone out because cellphones were for 'emergencies only' and mainly just used at night, when the free minutes kicked in.

[Another side note - My freshman year of college, I was the only person I knew with a laptop computer and I never once took it to class with me...that's what my spiral bound notebooks were for, duh.]

In so many ways, I'm grateful for what we didn't have back then. I'm grateful there was no social media, no Twitter or Facebook, no Instagram.

[As if! Our Blinky van was never this cool looking]

One thing we did have while I was in college that I doubt still exists on UT's campus is Blinky. Blinky was a 15-passenger Ford van with a blinking strobe light on the roof. This phantom cab of sorts made one wide continuous loop around campus after dark, picking up and dropping off mainly unaccompanied ladies and people on crutches so they wouldn't have to walk unsafely to their destinations. I spent many a night outside my dorm or the dorm of a friend, scanning the horizon for that dimly blinking light, hoping that Blinky was on its way. Blinky drivers really made the experience what it was too, some not speaking a word while others talked your head off, taking each curve on two wheels.

I know these are just silly stories. But there's more to it than that.

Each subsequent generation will have different experiences. And each will probably think they had it harder than the next one. And in some ways maybe that's true. But I know that kids today face different challenges. In many ways, I think it's harder now than ever before.

One day people who haven't even been born will teleport to their college classes and their parents will bemoan the way they used to have to ride only solar powered buses (the audacity!).

But for now, I'll reminisce about the way it was for me. And maybe you have some fond memories about the way things were in your experiences. I hope so!

College Memories: Nostalgia for Years Gone By

You know how when you're younger and you hear old people talk about how things have changed, and how they used to be and maybe how they long for things that once were. When we're young, we're so naive...we think "but it won't be like that for me."

Then you find yourself at 32 years old, shopping for tweezers to pluck a few errant chin hairs and are smacked right in the face with the reality of what those old people were talking about.

Tonight I stopped by the brand new Wal-Mart that just opened near the University of Tennessee. Classes haven't started yet, but there were a few random students and their parents shopping for rugs and lamps and such. I didn't really need anything (does this ever stop me from shopping?). But mostly I just wanted to check it out and see what all the hype was about.

It was really just your average Wal-Mart. But the fact that it's so easy to access from campus is sort of strange to me. Maybe it's because when I was in school, piling into a friend's car and making a late night trip to Wal-Mart was something of an adventure. Then, the closest one was at least a 15 minute ride away. Plenty of time for talking in the car, maybe listening to some awesomely bad music from the early 2000s.

Nobody told me how much I was supposed to enjoy those times while they were happening. I'm not sure who this wise person might have been, but at the time it was the farthest thing from my mind. Those four years flew by in a flash. From my first day of college when my parents and best friend left me crying on the front steps of Hess Hall (they were crying too) to the day I graduated with so many dear friends and family cheering me on.

I feel so grateful for those experiences and I certainly don't take them for granted. In a way, my time at college was extended because the fall after I graduated, I accepted a full-time job in the same department where I'd studied. I spent seven more years working for the university and also was able to get my graduate degree.

When I left that position a few years ago, the University had been where I spent almost every day of my life for eleven years.

What's more, I live less than one mile away from the place to this day. I've watched so many things change about the campus and the surrounding areas. Some for the better and some, I'm not so sure. I still don't know if this whole Wal-Mart thing is actually necessary.

Lots of beloved spots have shut down, with new ones (or parking lots) popping up in their places. I don't like to live in the past, but this time of year always makes me reminiscent for college days. When those students head to class in a few weeks, most won't think for one second about how one day they could be the chubby 32-year old buying tweezers while younger, cooler people who haven't even been born yet peruse rugs and lamps with their parents.

Do you ever find yourself looking back at memories of school days? Or maybe you hated school or have bad memories of that time. Be encouraged my friend...no matter what's behind, there's surely something better ahead!

Homesick for Somewhere We've Never Been

Our language can be so confusing. I wonder all the time about how certain words translate. The word homesick is one I wonder about. If you didn't have an understanding of what it meant, would it be hard to make sense of?

A vivid memory I have of feeling homesick was in elementary school. It might sound crazy, but oftentimes when my class had a substitute for the day, I was homesick for my teacher. I must have taken a lot of comfort in the familiar and when my teacher was away I missed her.

I woke up the other morning with an uneasy feeling. I told my beau about it and he reassured me, but asked if I knew what might be causing my anxiety. I couldn't put my finger on what I was feeling until I was alone in the car, but that's when I realized I was homesick.

It's a sinking feeling, heavy and cold. You can't see it and you can't predict when it will surface. But when it does, there's a sort of emptiness...like nobody ever really knew you and nobody'd miss you if you were gone. It sounds like the end of the world, and when it settles on you it feels that way too. But the good news is there's a simple cure.

The best way that I can think of (or at least what works for me) to quit being homesick is to spend time with somebody who loved you before you were born. When somebody loves you before you're born, it means they've known you as you always were. And no matter how you were or how you are, it means they love you anyway. I'm lucky to have a few people like this in my life.

But some of those somebodies who loved me best aren't around anymore. And I think without even realizing it, I found myself homesick for them and the places they once were.

I'm homesick for my granny's house. Not for the building that still sits atop a little hill in the country. Nor the walls and windows and front porch covered in bright green Astro turf. Not even for the big flat rock under the hickory nut tree that my uncle loaded up and hauled off after she died.

But I'm homesick for the nights spent scootched up next to her on the couch, watching Wheel of Fortune. I'm homesick for her pink formica kitchen countertops...covered in flour as she rolled out biscuit dough for my breakfast. I'm homesick for her cheesy scrambled eggs which tasted better than any I've ever had since.

When I found myself feeling homesick the other day, I imagined myself at my granny's and I felt a little better. I pictured her in Heaven and thought about how because so many people who have pieces of my heart are there that some of my heart feels like it's in Heaven too.

I'm homesick for Heaven even though I can't describe it or envision it. I have no idea what it looks like or feels like, but there's a part of me that wants to be there sometimes. The older I get, the more people I've loved will go there. And that's a sad/happy sort of feeling.

It's a powerful thing to know that somebody loved you before they even knew you. If you have the chance to love someone like that, I hope you will.

It's definitely how I feel about my younger siblings, and cousins, and dear friends' babies, who are growing up before my eyes. Maybe one day they'll be homesick for me. I couldn't imagine a greater honor.

Our Dreams: The Only Reality We Ever Know

"I believe in the dream. I think we only live through our dreams and our imagination. That's the only reality we really ever know.”

— Diana Vreeland in A Question of Style: A Conversation with Diana Vreeland by Lally Weymouth, Rolling Stone Magazine, 1977.

Have you ever found yourself awake in the middle of the night after a scary dream? This happens to me sometimes and it's hard to shake that feeling of fear. I try to tell myself it's just a dream....it's not reality.

But then I ran across this quote from the iconic Diana Vreeland and it got me thinking. About dreams. And what's real vs. what isn't.

For so much of our childhoods, we are told that our dreams aren't real. Especially the scary ones.

"It was just a dream...it wasn't real. It can't hurt you."

What if somewhere along the way, we started believing this about all our dreams?

I'm not talking about nightmares starring the boogie-man. I mean the dreams that are rooted way down deep inside of us...in those dark secret places where they can barely get enough air to breathe.

What comes to me is a question, one that's somewhat difficult to ask...but asked it must be.

Do you think your dreams are silly? 

I guess in order to think anything about your dreams, you must first know what they are. [If you aren't sure, maybe spend some time looking inside your heart. You'll find a dream (or two hundred) in there.]

So, about that dream of yours....Is it something you've held out hope that maybe, just maybe, one day might be possible?

Is it something you can imagine yourself doing, week in and week out, in the face of any and all opposition, whether you ever earn a red cent from it or not?

Do you tell yourself your dream can become a reality or do you dismiss your deepest hopes for fear they might be silly? I think fear of being seen as silly is a terrible thing. Just consider what wonderful adventures you might have if you'd only allow yourself to look a bit silly in the process.

Beside my desk is a small postcard with a drawing of a trapeze artist. On it is a quote that says: "It is only by risking ourselves from one hour to another that we live at all."

What are you risking these days? I don't mean your stock market investments. I'm talking about your reputation.

Are you more concerned about what people think of you to the point that you'd let fear of looking silly be a good enough reason to by-pass the possibilities of your dreams?

Unlike those scary dreams that plague my sleep, the dreams of our heart are very, very real. As Dame Vreeland said, our dreams are the only reality we know. So doesn't that mean we can use them to shape our lives? I say yes to that. 

How Old is Too Old?

Age is such a funny thing. It's not really real you know. So much meaning and weight gets tacked on to how old we are. I'm not saying I'm against celebrating birthdays, or even having big blowout celebrations for milestone birthdays. Those things are worth celebrating.

But what does age really matter?

This weekend, I listened to a podcast called Pop Culture Happy Hour about being too old for youth culture and toys. It raised some interesting points about how we outgrow certain things from childhood and not others.

I guess it depends on what type of childhood you had, but mine was pretty great. There was no shortage of time for me to play, especially with my grandparents who always seemed happy to oblige me. I had lots of favorite toys. But more than just the toys themselves was the opportunity they gave me to imagine and dream up all sorts of things.

Transitioning to adulthood is a natural process of growing up. Toys are abandoned for other pursuits. But why does it feel like using our imagination should be outgrown too?

On the podcast, the hosts talked about some of the things they did as children, including re-enacting the mini-series Roots using Matchbox cars. Another described how she and her sister would rake leaves into a giant game board and act like superheroes.

These stories spark something so strongly in me because they remind of similar things I used to do...like my game of "Drive-Thru Window" in which I'd be inside the house near the bedroom window and my grandpa had to go outside and walk up to it. Each time, he'd be a different made-up character, placing outrageous imaginary food orders that I'd have to whip up. We played this for hours.

As I sit here typing this post, my desk holds a couple of small plastic Hello Kitty happy meal toys, as well as my childhood watercolor set and a plastic penguin figurine that when you remove the head reveals a stash of crayons (also a beloved childhood toy). It's not so much that I want to be surrounded by toys, but maybe I just like the whimsy they inspire.

As my southern beau likes to say about me, "you do require a certain amount of whimsy."

Yesterday we got to spend some time with a wonderful lady who happens to be 85. She's a dear family friend and the adventures (and tragedies) her life contains would fill several volumes. But what struck me most about her is her youthful spirit. She was widowed at age 43 (so young) and never remarried. Then she went to college at age 70 and graduated with a degree in art. She certainly doesn't seem to think that she's too old to do anything her heart desires.

In passing, she made a comment about yodeling and when my southern beau found out she yodeled, he asked her to do it for us. She then belted out "I Want to be a Cowboy's Sweetheart" complete with yodeling and harmony. It was amazing! And it just served as another reminder to me that who we are isn't really defined by how many years we've been alive.

[image via]