Like an Ole Miss T-Shirt at a Razorback Tailgate Party

Does one need special permission to wear white after Labor Day?

               The answer, of course, is “yes.” You need permission, but that permission will be granted. Exceptions exist for every rule. 

                For example, should you have the misfortune to live outside the South, and you don’t know the fashion rules, then you could be forgiven for wearing a white dress or shoes (gasp) after Labor Day.  Forgiven, but still talked about.  Should you own a yacht and host a gala onboard, your white slacks and nautical jacket could sport sailing-red, white, and navy blue. Wedding-Dress white is preferable in all seasons, especially when “off-white” once suggested something scandalous. If, let’s say, you are the Pope, the white robe and cassock combo is ok and no permissions are necessary. 

                     A white 100% cotton or linen shirt is southern-casual-classy paired with skinny-leg jeans; that is, if you’ve been blessed with skinny legs!

 

So, with all those exceptions, why is there a rule in the first place? Let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. Society thrives on rules.  Rule-breakers would be so disappointed should there be no rules to break. But, let's qualify this particular rule: it’s not the white in the outfit that screams fashion faux-pas.  It’s the shoes. 

                    Your mama told you from the day you could choose cute shoes, “Put your white shoes and sandals in their boxes on the day after Labor Day.”  Her advice was right-on. White shoes after Labor Day, well, it’s “just not fittin.” When your fellow fashion friend gives your appearance the once-over, starting with your hair style and travelling down to your toe-nail polish, don’t cause rumbles throughout the South. Acknowledge that September weather is still hotter than the hinges of Hell, and humidity plus temperature dictates comfort.  Go so far as to give the OK to shorts and sandals. But the sandals must not be white.

                  White Shoes after Labor Day is akin to a beribboned picture-hat at a funeral or use of the wrong fork at a dinner party. White shoes in September stick out like 4" heels at a rodeo, like an Ole Miss t-shirt at a Razorback tailgate party. Plenty of reasons exist for why “Princess Margaret would never be a KKG,” but the paramount one must have been that she did not adhere to the upper/utter-most rule in fashion-conscious society:  There Shalt Be No White SHOES after Labor Day.

Front Porches and Southern Hospitality

                       What is it about the Front Porch that is so Southern iconic? Its shade is pleasing and coolly inviting. An expansive porch once wrapped around the non-air-conditioned house to preserve the cool of evening for the main house, well into the mid-day.


July, 1929

                Architectural designs throughout the South often encompass a front porch, a Southern staple, as much as a tomato and cucumber summer salad.
                 For moonlight and magnolia southerners, the Front Porch served as the stage for flirting, memory making and generational stories. Many a tentative Romeo has stolen a kiss while “just swinging” on Juliet’s front porch. 
      My growing-up family home had a front porch, a back porch, and a sleeping porch. We called it “the big house.” Front porch weather summoned us outside for “porch sitting.”  A cool breeze might saunter by as family gathered to share the day’s encounters.
                             When our family moved to our first “neighborhood,” our house also had a front porch. Sitting under the ceiling fan, my parents and grandparents, neighbors, too, watched us cavort across the neighboring yards and into the streets, often calling out, “Watch that car!”
                        Sometimes we kids talked and laughed while sitting on the curb until the mosquitos became vultures.  A screened front porch extended porch sitting well into the evening so there could be conversation sans mosquitos.
                       In our neighborhood, we grew up under the watchful eye of a front porch sentinel, our own version of Mrs. Gladys Kravitz.  Keeping watch from her Front Porch perch, she saw everything. Because this neighbor would not only see all, but tell all, some of us were cautious in our behavior. 

                  Comments about “curb appeal” now come from those who drive or stroll by our homes. Living beyond the front door, porch, and sidewalk, the community senses welcome from the family who dwells within a house with a pleasing front porch area. Perhaps that is why many families today continue front porch hospitality traditions rather than the more private backyard venue.
           Back yards, patios, decks, and privacy fencing have moved our porch sitting habits to a more secluded area. Fancy outdoor living spaces include grilling kitchens, private swimming pools, landscaping and outdoor lighting located in the rear of the home. The ambiance for a marvelous experience exudes hospitality, but nothing replicates the inviting community feel of a beautiful front porch and the family that welcomes us to join them for some “porch sitting.”

The Mystery of the "E"

     Skeletons. Closets. Farmersville, TX.  This tiny farming community became home to great-great grandfather Jay Horn and wife Samuel Eliza Lansford (Rike)Horn.  Genealogy records indicate they called her "Sammie."  She was the wife of Lewis Rike, brother of GW Rike, son of Robert A. Rike.  GW Rike, RA Rike, and Jay Horn, Sr. owned the first herds of cattle brought to the Farmersville area.  Lewis died young and three years later, Sammie married Jay Horn.  My grandfather, Claude Garland Horn(e), was one of their children.

     Claude set out for Camden, Arkansas (why, I do not know), arriving there in 1906.  His brother Samuel Lansford Horn (Sam) came with him.  Claude was 21 and Sam was 17.  Both became prominent businessmen in Camden.  Claude won the prize, however, marrying the youngest of the Gordon Girls and the last to marry, my grandmother, Mildred. The mystery remains:  why did Claude add the "e" to the spelling of Horn?
      A family split makes for a good story, but that does not seem the case, as my mother tagged around with, idolized, and absolutely adored Uncle Sam's daughter, Mildred, named for her mother.  Beautiful and popular Mildred died at age 19 or 20 from measles' complications. Her brothers Sammy and Billy Horn lived, worked, and raised children in Camden, but the women and girls did not socialize much at all. The men (Daddy, my Uncle Gordon, Sammy, Billy, and their other-cousin John Ritchie) enjoyed hunting, fishing, and camping trips. (According to legend, they did some hunting and fishing on their drinking trips.) I remember Susan (Mibby-Sue/ Mildred Susan) and DJ (Dorothy Jane/ Janie) slightly. Trying to form a relationship, even on Facebook, can be a challenge.  Who has ownership of all the photos of Grandaddy's side of the family? Where are the photos of Uncle Sam's family members?
     Family Mysteries are good fodder for writing, but could be solved if all the cousins could manage to join forces, share memories, and ultimately uncover the photos. Maybe we could solve the Mystery of the "E."

"Morning Rainfall" with Musical Musings

Rumble. Rumble again.
         Blink.  Blink again. 

Recognition and realization.

Rain, soft and steady, sheeting sanctuary windows.
Tug upon the covers.  Snuggle into the burrow.  Sigh. 
Sigh again. Soft and warm.
Safe. Peace. 
Symphony of rainfall. Sleep again and Smile.

Musical musings: Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head; Singing in the Rain; Rainy Night in Georgia; Rhythm of the Rain.

Birthday Pleasure: Delicious Pink Frosting

                Step back in time…way, way back to the era of a little girl’s birthday. I was transported there this morning as I visited with a Rector neighbor.  She had baked her grandchildren’s favorite cake to take to the family dinner tonight, and was busy whipping up the frosting.  As I watched and we conversed, I noted her steps and she shared that the recipe was one she’d always had within her family. When I saw the beater raised from the mixing bowl, I knew it was my family’s recipe also.  I had never made the icing myself, and I only recall one specific time when Mother, herself, made it.  For my birthday – perhaps age 3 – because I recall that we were in the kitchen of our little house on Crestwood.
                     

The cake did not matter as much as the frosting.  Our family’s basic recipe involved simple syrup and 4 egg whites plus 1 T sugar beaten into peaks by an experienced hand with a faultless rhythm.  The red handled “egg-beater” was used with skill to create stiff peaks within a Wesson Oil gray crock boasting a blue band and blue lettering.  Once the simple syrup (1 cup water, 1 cup sugar cooked to the string stage) was added in, a stand mixer could be used to create the fluffy, stiff-peaked frosting.  Add a teeny-tiny dot of red food coloring, and voila’!  Pink Icing!  

                      Want to lick the beaters?

Just Peachy

                 While the phrase, “everything’s just peachy” can be a facetious  remark in an off-handed slap to the day being a bit less than hoped, allow me to comment that, indeed, all is “just peachy.”

               We have Peaches!  It’s July, right?  Late in their arrival by a few weeks, the orchards have been suddenly laden with peaches in various stages.  Some ripe, some firm, we purchased a bushel of each. 

               What can beat fresh peaches over vanilla…frozen yogurt?  And, I cannot allow a summer to go by without my famous peach cobbler.  Not the dump it all in a casserole with something from the bottom coming to the top, but my fabulously foot-stomping, slap-yo-mama delicious, family peach cobbler.  It’s prepared first and foremost in the peach cobbler pyrex dish.  Just the right amount (or more) of the secret ingredient is added to the sliced syrupy peaches before pouring them into the prepared crust in the prepared dish and placing the divine creation into the prepared oven.

             Peaches in the morning, peaches in the evening, peaches at suppertime!

"Anyone doing tasteless or vulgar movements will be immediately disqualified!"

               Ballroom Dancing lessons. Just like learning to play bridge to be eligible for Junior League membership, young ladies and arm-twisted young gentlemen learned to waltz, tango, cha-cha,  twirl and dip. Some dancers were more talented than others, don't ya know. Those couples were our Bobby and Sissy (if you have to ask, don't), Lawrence and the Champagne Lady, our very own Johnny and Penny ("don't put Baby in a corner").
                On assigned evenings, at Miss Connie's Dance Studio (very close to Miss Maud's house), about 20 barely-teenagers reluctantly walked into her living room, cleared of all furniture and turned into a dance studio.  This was the venue for 7th and 8th grade young people to learn refined dance moves.  The teens had the Bop, The Twist, the Hully-Gully, Walking the Dog, and the Stroll to perfection, so how come, they wondered, were they back in the 40's with Glenn Miller and Stardust? They were told they'd thank their parent later.
                I was one of those teens at Miss Connie's. After we'd learned all we possibly could learn, we practiced a routine showcasing all steps, while going around in a giant circle. We participated as a group in a Spring Recital! Reflecting, I cringe for us, but humiliation for me came after the performance. My attempt to add filler to the poofy upper portion of my dress had met with disaster.  Long prior to the catch-phrase "wardrobe malfunction," my own rendition occurred as wads of tucked away Kleenex had worked their way upward, white folds peeking through the sky blue lace covering my de'colletage. I'm just glad they didn't scooch up so far as to actually escape.

            That same summer, to appease teen egos, our parents threw us a dance party!  A neighbor's carport was lighted with Christmas lights, flashing bulbs and wired for stereo. A revolving Christmas tree multi-color spotlight aimed on the dance floor added pizazz, prior to the disco-ball. A fine dance-powder gave the concrete a festive sheen and a fabulous sound as we all danced to records spun by our host's  much older brother and his girlfriend. This couple had dance moves we'd never seen.  Several in our neighborhood troupe could really do the
bop and the twist!  Iconic Sandy and Danny would not have won that Dance Contest.
              Teen-Town, where Judy danced circles around Jerry, and Panther Prowls after home ballgames filled our teen years, meeting our need to dance, even if we didn't know which guy was our partner (Hey, Am I dancing with you?). Kevin Bacon (Footloose! 1984) would have felt more at home in Camden than that two-bit town somewhere in Texas. 
                Come on, Everybody! "Let's Dance!"