my ‘southern heritage’

My mom was born in Geor­gia and raised in a lit­tle town called Cen­tre, Al­aba­ma (pop­u­la­tion in 1960: 2,200).
The town in To Kill a Mock­ing­bird was ex­act­ly like Cen­tre, every­thing about it.

Walk­ing down Main Street to the court house to see my un­cle an atty who worked there as did his fa­ther be­fore him.
See­ing my great un­cle the chief of po­lice who took me ‘coon hunt­ing’ one night.
The smell of cig­ars that per­me­at­ed the building.
The creak­ing of the stairs when I walked up them.
Get­ting bit by a stray dog on the front steps and the men who came to my aid.

Jordan’s Store where I would get Dr Pep­per from a cool­er out front on the sidewalk.
Lemon Meringue pies lots and lots of Lemon Meringue pies.
The smell of fried ham and grits in the morn­ing at my grandmother’s.
Hot hu­mid nights and a fan by the bed blow­ing across a bowl of ice.
The huge black and yel­low grasshop­pers called ‘devil’s hors­es’ in my grandmother’s garden.
Red dirt, beau­ti­ful red dirt.
Fried chick­en, ohhh such fried chicken.
Span­ish moss.
The lo­cal ‘se­cret’ swim­ming hole.
The town hang­out, The Dairy Queen.
Pam Day the first girl I fondled.
Janet Cof­fee the girl I loved.
Look­ing for mini-balls in an­cient battlefields.
Tevis Burke, Rich Tevis, who adored me and of­fered to buy me from my mom. She had a foot but­ton in the din­ing room to call the cook, I thought that was amazing.
My cousin Reb the lo­cal doc­tor who showed me his spe­cial 12 gauge shot­gun pis­tol one day, “Don’t tell your mother.”
His beau­ti­ful nurse and wife Lil­lian al­ways in white.
His small clin­ic at his house. The ever present smell of disinfectant.
The smell of my uncle’s sta­bles and his Ten­nessee Walkers.
The smell of the corn crib and sneak­ing food to Trig­ger one of his Shet­land Ponies.
The pond down in his pas­ture where I found a goose chick that was injured.
The smell of kerosene that mom used to clean the wound, we had that damned goose for years.
Crick­ets, fire­flies, horseflies.

There is so much beau­ty and kind­ness to be proud of in the deep south.

“You don need no stinkin’ flag!”

“You don need no stinkin’ statues!”

—Louis Warfield

Flom­mist Louis Warfield is a fab­ri­ca­tion spe­cial­ist who runs the award-win­ning Rhi­no De­sign Stu­dio, “You dream it, we’ll build it.” Copy­right © 2020 Louis Warfield. Im­ages swiped from a few places.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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