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The best things never do.

I graduated high school in a smallish Nothing Ever Happens Here town.  Back then the High School was a spread out single story building.  We roamed first hall, second hall, and long hall in little cliques of like minded friends, but we treated everyone else with kindness, too, maybe because we were half hometown kids and half military brats who understood differences are just a part of life. Weekends were made for bonfires and beer drinking in one field or another, and for running through woods and briar patches if the deputies showed up.  There were 3 small theaters in town offering a choice of 7 movie screens and a bowling alley that is still open 30 years later.  We drove around town burning our .78 to the gallon gas, and usually ended up parking and hanging out in front of Hardees or Walmart listening to music and telling teenage stories.  They run the kids off for that these days though. I moved back to this town a few years ago.  The population has grown. Where I once sat at a
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Thanksgiving

Down South we grow big families.  Aunts, Uncles, and cousins all piled on top of one another at reunions, pond side fishin' at the farm, at baseball games, in the pool, and most especially at the dinner table.  Holidays at Nana's house were a given, and if someone moved out of state they'd better have vacation time saved up come late November. Because the food, y'all.  Back then it seemed every Southern woman cooked things so good it'd make you slap your mama.  Except she did it, too.     Granddaddy cooked the turkey and the pecan pie.  Nana did the mashed potatoes and the dressing and the banana pudding and the Chicken and Dumplings.  They probably both made other things but you've just read everything found on my plate through the years.  My aunts brought the casseroles of every kind, desserts, and salads.  And every year Aunt Sally burned the rolls. My mama always brought a pile of dishes, including the fried chicken.  And every year my mama and her chi
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Grandmothers always know best.

I was probably 10 years old when I met my first tomato sandwich. It was a day of favorite days, spent hanging out with my grands at their Handyman/Crafting shop. At lunch time Nana called me away from pinning shiny sequins on fruit shapes, and because nobody feeds kids better than grandmothers I went running. "What are we having today, Nana?" "Tomato sandwiches." "Ew. I don't like those." "Have you tried one?" "No. But I don't like them." That's when my granddaddy walked into the office, winked at me and said "I'll just eat yours then since you don't want it." He would have, too. So I watched her slather mayonnaise on a slice of white bread, add layers of perfectly ripened tomato, and sprinkle on salt and pepper before I reluctantly took a scrunchy faced "this is gonna be gross" kid sized bite. I didn't even bother with the chips resting on my paper plate that day, be
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