If you ask me a question, you’re getting a story.
New shoes? Story.
Chipped coffee mug? Definitely a story.
Last Tuesday? Oh, I hope you’ve got time.
Storytelling is just what I do. Part of it is probably the way my brain is wired, sure. But it’s heritage, too—I’m not the only one. If you sit in the parish hall, or stand in line at Publix, or linger at your mailbox long enough, you’ll see. You’ll hear the history of someone’s macaroni salad. Why the woman in the checkout line prefers dill pickle to sweet relish. Or why the gentleman down the street will only put Duke’s mayonnaise on his tomato sammich.
It’s in the South. It’s in our bones. We tell stories. It’s how it’s done.
When I was a kid, I came back to the South after years of being an Air Force brat—overseas, then up north—and my ear wasn’t quite tuned yet. Southern accents still slipped past me sideways.
One morning, right before Christmas, I woke up and announced to my Nanny that I needed to bring something for the school party that afternoon. Immediately. As children do.
She didn’t miss a beat. She pulled out a bowl, a potato, a jar of peanut butter, and an entire box of confectioners’ sugar and said she could whip up some osh potato candy real quick.
At least that’s what I heard.
