Growing up Southern (And Dancing on Sunday Morning)

I was born in the South. I grew up in the South. And I still live in the South. Wouldn't have it any other way.

When I was little (I refuse to tell you how many years ago that was), we always started Sundays by going to the little Baptist Church out in the country on Greenpond Road. Almost everyone did. (I wish it was still that way today).

Of course, everyone knew if you were Southern Baptist, you were not supposed to drink, swear, smoke, or dance. Check, oops, check, oops. As I marched up the steps to my Sunday School class, I noticed lots of the "older" men standing around and smoking a cigarette before church started. They were smoking, so did it mean it was OK to dance?

I sure hope so, because every Sunday morning while my Daddy played "oldies" on the stereo in the den, I tap danced and balleted my way around the den in my Winnie-the-Pooh black patent leather Mary Janes and my slip. Yes, we all used to wear a slip. It may be quite a challenge to find one in a store now.

I never put on my dress until the last minute because Mama thought I might spill something all over it at the breakfast table. But the slip was mighty fine for twirling, and I danced in front of an audience of my pretend friends and celebrities like Donny Osmond.

So, fast forward >> years (Did you think I was actually going to tell you HOW MANY?). Occasionally, I have a SkinnyGirl cocktail, sometimes my tongue says things it shouldn't, I never had the desire to smoke, and I still dance. But only in private to make my son and husband laugh. Watch Elaine Benes on a Seinfeld rerun. You'll get the picture.

Don't forget to celebrate Memorial Day.

Love,
TCB