Thirty years ago I visited my first cousin in Virginia. While hanging out with his friend, the discussion turned to popular movies of the day. When I offered my two-cents on the authenticity and social relevance of the movie Billy Jack, one of the boys asked, in all seriousness, “Do . . . → Read More: My South]]>

I received this as an email from my aunt… Yep, it’s good enough to share – with a few editorial changes, of course.

This was written by Robert St. John, executive chef and owner of the Purple Parrot Cafe, Crescent City Grill and Mahogany Bar of Hattiesburg , MS.

Thirty years ago I visited my first cousin in Virginia. While hanging out with his friend, the discussion turned to popular movies of the day. When I offered my two-cents on the authenticity and social relevance of the movie Billy Jack, one of the boys asked, in all seriousness, “Do you guys have movie theaters down there?” To which I replied, “Yep. We wear shoes too.”

Just three years ago, my wife and I were attending a food and wine seminar in Aspen, Colo. We were seated with two couples from Las Vegas. One of the Glitter Gulch gals was amused and downright rude when I described our restaurant as a fine-dining restaurant. “Mississippi doesn’t have fine-dining restaurants!” she insisted and nudged her companion. I fought back the strong desire to mention that she lived in the land that invented the 99-cent breakfast buffet.

I wanted badly to defend my state, my region, and my restaurant with a 15-minute soliloquy and public relations rant that would surely change her mind. It was at that precise moment that I was hit with a blinding jolt of enlightenment, and in a moment of complete and absolute clarity it dawned on me: my South is the best-kept secret in the country. Why would I try to win this woman over? She might move down here.

The Southern Magnolia

I am always amused by Hollywood’s interpretation of the South. We are still, on occasion, depicted as a collective group of sweaty, stupid, backwards-minded, racist rednecks. The South of movies, TV, and Hollywood is not my South.

This is my South:

My South is full of honest, hardworking people. My South is the birthplace of blues and jazz, and rock n’ roll. It has banjo pickers and fiddle players. But it also has BB King, Muddy Waters, the Allman Brothers, Emmylou Harris, Jimmy Buffett, and Elvis. And Nat King Cole, Gloria Estefan, Leontyn Price, Anita Baker, and Beyonce. And Morgan Freeman, Dakota Fanning, Jeff Foxworthy, and Julia Roberts.

My South is hot. My South smells of newly mowed grass. My South was kick the can, creek swimming, cane-pole fishing and bird hunting.

In my South, football is king, and the Southeastern Conference is the kingdom.

My South is home to the most beautiful women on the planet.

In my South, soul food and country cooking are the same thing.

My South is full of fig preserves, cornbread, butter beans, fried chicken, grits and catfish. In my South, we also eat foie gras, caviar and truffles.

In my South, our transistor radios introduced us to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones at the same time they were introduced to the rest of the country.

In my South, grandmothers cook a big lunch every Sunday. So big that we call it dinner. (Supper comes later).

In my South, family matters. Deeply.

My South is boiled shrimp, blackberry cobbler, peach ice cream, (or peach cobbler and blackberry ice cream, if you prefer), banana pudding and oatmeal cream pies.

In my South people put peanuts in bottles of Coca-Cola and hot sauce on almost everything.

In my South the tea is iced and almost as sweet as the women.

My South has air-conditioning.

My South is camellias, azaleas, wisteria and hydrangeas.

In my South, the only person that has to sit on the back of the bus is the last person that got on the bus.

In my South, people still say, “Yes, ma’am,” “No ma’am,” “Please” and “Thank you.”

In my South, we wear shoes… Most of the time.

My South is the best-kept secret in the country. Please continue to keep the secret. It keeps the idiots away.

This past week we received our fruit & nut trees from Burgess. (I didn’t expect them to be shipped until fall.) They arrived on Monday and needed to be put in the ground as soon as possible – they’re “bare-root” trees & shrubs. With my husband away for work from 7am to at least 7pm, . . . → Read More: Memorial Weekend and Georgia Red Clay]]> For most people Memorial Day Weekend is a fun time with friends & family. Often involving a beach or some other vacation spot. After this past weekend, I am sun-burned and sore all over… But it’s not because of any fun!

This past week we received our fruit & nut trees from Burgess. (I didn’t expect them to be shipped until fall.) They arrived on Monday and needed to be put in the ground as soon as possible – they’re “bare-root” trees & shrubs. With my husband away for work from 7am to at least 7pm, that meant the work was all on me!

So, I dropped all the work that I had planned for the week and went to the store to get top soil & humus to mix into our solid red clay soil. Late afternoon, after it cooled off (relatively speaking – this IS Georgia!), I gathered all the tools & materials & went to the first spot to start a hole. Stabbed the shovel into the ground. It only went about an inch deep. I stood on it and bounced. It only went maybe another half inch! UGH!!!

Sun-baked Red Clay

What am I gonna do if I can’t even dig a hole?!?!?!? We hadn’t had rain in WEEKS, but we did have record or near record highs, so the red clay was hard-baked!!  I waited on Danny, hoping in vain that he’d come home early enough to dig the holes for me. No such luck.

The next morning, I went to Home Depot & purchased a mini-tiller that I’d researched and had my eye on: the Honda FG110. It’s not supposed to be able to break “virgin” ground, and I hadn’t been able to find the digging tines attachment for it anywhere, but I was desperate and running out of time.

Late that afternoon/early evening, after it cooled off (relatively speaking, of course), I put it to the test. It actually did the job! It bounces when it hits really hard-packed clay, but with patience, it dug in & turned the clay to dust! And it’s small enough that the hole it digs is just the right size! Unfortunately, I only had time to plant 3 trees before it was too dark to see what I was doing any more.

Danny comes home (as I’m putting everything away) & says, “Why don’t you just put them in pots for now? That gives them time to put on some leaves before we plant them in the fall, so I can see them when I’m mowing the field.”

Fortunately, I have enough big pots (from potted fruit trees we’d planted last spring), but I don’t have enough potting soil. So the next morning I go out looking for potting soil that does NOT have fertilizer in it. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find just plain old potting soil without some kind of plant food in it! (Directions say not to fertilize for the first year because it can damage young roots.) UGH! I got home just in time to put everything away & get to the school for my afternoon volunteer work and bring my darling daughter home.

The rest of the afternoon was spent mixing soil by hand and putting 6 more trees in pots! YAY! I was done!

Planted Mulberry

The next day? The order of fruit & nut trees from Four Seasons came in! At least Danny would be home tomorrow… He could help with the work! Unfortunately, I was out of big pots. So instead of buying more pots, Danny dug the holes while I bought more top soil & humus. (Thank You to the retired Army Vet who helped put the heavy bags in the back of my truck!) The rest of the day was spent digging holes, mixing dirt, and planting the trees. IN THE GROUND. That’s when I got sun burned, because we started in the morning and didn’t finish until late afternoon.

Just for the record, the ground was so hard that even Danny couldn’t dig the holes with a shovel!!! And it had rained overnight 2 nights before!!

Since it was Memorial Day weekend, that meant we had another day to get some work done. So Monday was spent cleaning (scrubbing!!) the vinyl siding and washing windows! I pulled my hair back to keep from getting so hot, put sun block on my arms and put a wide brimmed hat on my head to protect head, neck & ears from the sun. Unfortunately, even the hat hurt my sun burned ears.

We’re gonna re-side with hardy plank & next time,  I’m hiring someone else to do the work!

Unfortunately that’s proving to be a delimma.

You see, I started acting back in the early 90′s, then started working online in 1997. Everyone who knew me back then, knew me as Dannielle Wood. Everyone who knew me personally, knew as Danni. That’s how I knew myself. When I got married in 2002, I needed those who already . . . → Read More: Delimma – What Should My Titter ID Be?]]> I’m currently on Twitter as danni63. Some of you already know me by that ID on instant messenger programs, but it’s not very creative, is it? Besides one of the first rules you learn about Twitter is to use your real name.

Unfortunately that’s proving to be a delimma.

You see, I started acting back in the early 90′s, then started working online in 1997. Everyone who knew me back then, knew me as Dannielle Wood. Everyone who knew me personally, knew as Danni. That’s how I knew myself. When I got married in 2002, I needed those who already knew me to still be able to identify me, so I just added my married name to the end. I’m still Danni, but my legal name, thus my formal identity, is Dannielle Wood Hixson.

But “DannielleWoodHixson” is too long to use as a Twitter ID. So is “DannielleWHixson.” Here’s what does fit and what my thoughts are about each:

• “DannielleWood” – my original, initially marketed name. That’s why my website is “danniellewood.com.” But my husband is very proud of his last name. “We have our own town, you know.” Yes, he’s a direct descendant of The Hixson of Hixson, Tennessee. Even though he wouldn’t say so, he’d be awfully hurt if I didn’t use his name. Well… if & when he finds out, he would say something. Not much – just enough that I’d know it bothers him. If it’s possible to avoid that conversation, I’d rather not have it.
• “DannielleHixson” – only family knows me as Dannielle Hixson. Maybe my current customers and prospects have picked up on the “Hixson” added to all my emails & websites.
• “DanniHixson” – if you call my home and ask for Danni, you’re gonna get “which one?” My husband is Danny, too.
• “DanniWood” – Yeah, that’s who I was for the first 39 years of my life, and most people know me as either Dannielle or Danni Wood… But there’s that leaving off my husband’s name again, and it’s not who I am “legally.”
• “DanniWoodHixson” – I like it best, mostly because I’ve been Danni all my life and it’s more my own identity – how I know myself. But EVERYONE else, just about it, knows me as Dannielle! And there’s that “Hixson” added to the end… “Who’s that?”

ALL that said, there’s this little voice in the back of my head that says, “Get over yourself! You’re not ‘famous’ enough to worry about the name you market, much less how people get to know you on Twitter! Who cares who you are legally? Besides, if you use Danni, that’s how you originally wanted to market yourself anyway, so you get back to your original identity!” (Yes, I couldn’t use Danni, my own name, because that domain was already taken for a porn site. I was furious about my name being misused!) So, there is that part of me that thinks that what ever I use is irrelevant – I can even keep danni63 and it wouldn’t matter.

I can’t decide for myself, so I’ve decided I’m gonna let everyone else choose. Leave your comments below – even if you have other ideas. The choice that gets the most votes wins.

Let the voting begin!

Yes, I’m pointing the finger at myself, too. Although I . . . → Read More: Diligence and Living by Example]]> Here’s a story you’ve probably seen before. I think it’s worthy of posting here because it serves as an example of so many qualities I’ve noticed are disappearing in our culture. Diligence (according to good ol’ Webster: perseverance and care in work; hard work done carefully), living and teaching by example, integrity. My parents and grandparents lived by an honor code that is not found in today’s generations. Today people tend to live as if there are no consequences. They expect the government to save them from their bad decisions.

Yes, I’m pointing the finger at myself, too. Although I don’t think ANY one is going to save me from my bad decisions, I do tend to forget that my actions have consequences not just for me, but for my family as well.

When times are tough, are we diligent in our actions? They do speak louder than words…

The Pickle Jar

The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents’ bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.

As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty.  Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled.

I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate’s treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.  When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank.

Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production.  Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.

Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully.  “Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son You’re going to do better than me.  This old mill town’s not going to hold you back.”

Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly, “These are for my son’s college fund. He’ll never work at the mill all his life like me.”

We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone.  I always got chocolate.  Dad always got vanilla.  When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm.  “When we get home, we’ll start filling the jar again.”

He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar.  As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other.  “You’ll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,” he said. “But you’ll get there. I’ll see to that.”

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar.  Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar.

To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable,  he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me.  “When you finish college, Son,” he told me, his eyes glistening, “You’ll never have to eat beans again – unless you want to.”

The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone.  It had served its purpose and had been removed.

A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood.  My dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.

When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy.  In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me.

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents.  After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad’s arms. “She probably needs to be changed,” she said, carrying the baby into my parents’ bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.

She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room. “Look,” she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins.  I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins…  With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar.  I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.

This truly touched my heart.  I know it has yours as well. Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our blessings.

Never underestimate the power of your actions.  With one small gesture you can change a person’s life, for better or for worse.

God puts us all in each other’s lives to impact one another in some way. Look for Good in others.

The best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or touched – they must be felt with the heart ~ Helen Keller

-      Happy moments, praise God.

-      Difficult moments, seek God.

-      Quiet moments, worship God.

-      Painful moments, trust God.

-      Every moment, thank God.

wingsuit base jumping from Ali on Vimeo.