Everyday When I Open My Eyes, It's A Saturday

    David Gray, a singer and songwriter, sang the above words this morning, that are the title of this blog.
    Not only did I and do, feel like its a Saturday, but I felt so blessed to hear him this May 1st morning.
    All our days, should feel like that.( and that is not easy!)
       I go to let Lucy, the lab, out this morn and there was a chill in the air. The curse words were flying out of my mouth, when I took a breath and said, "It's Saturday Morning Bon, get it together!"
       I have much to do, and lets do it with a Saturday mentality!
       ( Don't all people talk to themselves? or just us special ?? ones???)
    I drove to Florida last weekend, ( Yes, Emma you drove more, blah blah) and this weekend we fly to Amsterdam and Brussels for a few weeks. We certainly have spring fever, travel bugs up our bottoms.
    I need to be packing but... I was thinking about you, the reader. I finished that book I was talking about, and you need to hear the rest.
    Under Magnolia: A Southern Memoir by Frances Mayes
        So it continues,
                     * pine scented disinfectant, worn out shoes ( my grandmother sprayed Becky and I with lysol because we had strep!)
                     * Decent, she said. You hear that word all the time in the South: a decent person, a decent meal, a decent amount of time, that's decent of you
                     *For years when I went back home to visit, I broke out in hives
                     *Ponderable, yes much to ponder
                     *flat out ornery, peculiar, unto themselves folks
                     *bone lonely
                     * Ah, the mythic South, the only swath of America not strangled by the deadly literal mind
                     * Their lay-my-burden-down branches touch the ground
                     *Teeninny, cussed out, pray tell, cut the light, mash that bug, done did, doodly-squat, take ahold ( wonderful slang)
                       * All southern writers have to be drawn to the eccentric language of the South, the rhythmic loops of the narrative, wild metaphors and hyperbole, larger-than-life figures in local legends
                  
            I could just keep going, but I will stop with this line, "How do learn to talk without saying anything?"
            "It's an art, " I replied.
             This Frances Mayes is speaking my language. Yes she touches on the ugly of the South, we all know it still hides around every corner. Its not all capezios and crinolines, (her line, wish it were mine) the racist have not evolved. And Jesus and the Lord are still hauled out to fix the kitchen sink and lower the confederate flag. The South, you can love it and hate it, in the same breath.
            I do both, and this book reminds me, of all the love I have for this canopy of humidity.
            Its my home, its my people, good and bad, fallible and fragile. It is a place where stories are told, and continue to be told, and I love them. We have to let go of our quest to appear normal, The South is anything but that, and there is the love.
           Everyday is Saturday in the South