I like to think that my writing is a gift I have. Y’all tell me so, and I want to believe you. You say that reading my words is just like having me in the room with you, chatting. And that makes my heart swell. Because ain’t nothing worse than pretentious writing.

I have a little sign above my desk that reminds me every day to be thankful. It says, “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.”~Pablo Picasso

I think I do.

Even if I’ve had half a pot of coffee, I can write. Even when I hurt, maybe especially when I hurt, I can still write. I may not be writing about the thorn itself, but I’ll be circling it like a shark circles its prey.

My other gift is my hair. It gives y’all something undeniable on which to blame my crazy. You’re welcome. It’s also a gift to me from God, that way I can shrug and say, “What’d you expect? I’m a redhead.” I think my hair was the gateway that got me here. It’s wild, and people are drawn to it. When there’s nothing else to talk about, when we’ve exhausted the weather, and what we do for a living, conversation will unfailingly turn to my hair.

So what do you want for your gift today? Do you want me to write a love story? My love stories don’t have happy endings, I’ll warn you. Not a single one. Not the new ones and not the ones that are decades old. The purest love ends in death. The rotten ones end in lies.

So perhaps I should tell you about my South today. That’s always a popular subject.

In my South today, it is snowing. Two days ago it was 68 degrees. The snow almost looks like rain, because it’s coming straight down and it’s those wet, heavy flakes that are crucial to a sizable snowman. The snow isn’t laying here, though. The daffodils came up a couple of weeks ago, and bloomed this week. They are bowed to the elements, but bravely holding on. Like people. Sometimes you just have to put your head down till the worst of it passes. Sometimes you just don’t have the strength to face it head on. Not today anyway. Maybe tomorrow.

In my South, everyone is tied to one another. Lately, that’s been a bad thing. I don’t want to put on makeup on a Sunday to run to the gas station for milk. But as sure as I don’t, I’ll run into somebody who’ll tell their mother and their best friend that they saw me and I looked like five miles of bad road, just because I’m pale and I didn’t wear mascara. Seriously, when you’re fair skinned, it really does make all the difference.

In my South, people don’t blow their horn unless you really deserve it.

In my South, we watch the skies and point out a hawk in the middle of conversation so you don’t miss it.

In my South, the wait staff at my favorite restaurants know where I want to sit and bring me my favorite drink before I can request it.

In my South, we hug when we meet and we hug again when we leave.

In my South, we put a little perk in our voice when answering the phone and we tell people to have a nice day, or maybe a blessed one.

In my South, people hold doors and say please and thank you and call you honey, love, sweetie, miss, ma’am, darlin’, or sir.

In my South, we flirt. Sometimes with disaster, but always with each other. Even Yankees. Admittedly, this is one of my favorite pastimes, making Yankees fall a little in love with me and then delivering them backhanded compliments. Bless their hearts.

In my South, deviled eggs are a staple and it’s not Sunday dinner without them.

In my South, we revere football. We play golf to make us feel cultured, but we’d rather be fishing if we were honest with ourselves.

In my South, we drink beer before and after meals, but sweet tea during.

In my South, people turn out for funerals and usually have a good time.

In my South, you leave for at least thirty minutes so you don’t appear to be rushing off. That’s the height of bad taste.

In my South, we have the best dogs ever.

In my South, we ask, “how’s yer momma ‘n’ ’em?” even if we’ve never met your momma.

In my South, we make lifelong friends at the beauty parlor.

In my South, we just take our time. Whether it’s baking a cake, swinging on the porch, calling a store for a part, or enjoying a meal. Because even though we ain’t got plenty of it and we’re not promised tomorrow, we’re here in this moment right now.

All my love from Appalachia,

~Amy