Submission to Southern Living, 5/09

Submitted to Southern Living a couple weeks ago, for their Southern Journal column. Specs are for the piece to be a 500-600 word narrative about life in the South, from a first person perspective. I was told to expect a wait of several weeks before hearing back from them, due to a high volume of submissions, but I'm hopeful.

As anyone who knows me can probably tell, this is a little afield of my usual style, but probably a lot more palatable for mass consumption.

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Just after lunch, our family’s little caravan made its way down a winding country road lined with cow pastures and dense woods. Soon, the antebellum three-story appeared, just ahead on the left. Its stark-white face, wide front steps, and high pillars downright towered over the narrow gravel driveway. A red-faced deputy was directing the minivans and pick-ups toward the far end of the yard. It had rained the night before, and steam drifted lazily up from the tall grass as we walked over.

Who knew I had so many relatives? Folks were rolling in from all over the South, relatives so far out across the family tree we’d never even met. Still, squeals of delight echoed across the lawn as others reunited for the first time in ages. Men in boots and bolo ties clasped hands; aunts and grandmothers in bright, floral dresses hugged while the little kids chased each other around. A matronly woman sat at a card table by the front door, sipping lemonade and passing out name tags to a long line of people. This was the biggest family reunion I’d been to since… well, since before I’d left for college ten years ago.

I couldn’t believe I’d never been to the ancestral family home. After signing in, I stepped inside with everyone else. We took handouts, each describing how the house was built in the 1840’s by those hardy people in grainy photos on the walls. We went from room to room, marveling at the framed needlepoint, cannonball beds, and other heirlooms from a bygone time. The sprawling kitchen was still bustling like it must have back then; cooks were hurrying past with trays of sweet

tea, brownies the size of coffee cups, and ten different kinds of finger sandwiches for the crowd outside.

We made our way upstairs, through the kids’ bedrooms, with checkered floors and sturdy, wooden plank toy chests. One room even had the original wallpaper, its colors deepened to a rich blue and brown. I saw a vintage typewriter in the hall, nearly a century old, and wondered how many fingers had rested on those steel keys.

After visiting a bit, Mom and I strolled out to the family plot, a chain link enclosure at the edge of the woods. Some of the headstones bore the names of Confederate soldiers, their wives and children. Some were carved ornately and deep, and others were humble stone markers, the text rounded by the elements and reddened with age. I hunkered down to snap a picture or two.

As we walked back, Mom pointed out across the grass. “Can you tell me what’s funny about that tree?” I walked up close to check it out – it forked about three feet off the ground, and the two halves rose up right next to each other, their lowest branches swaying high overhead

“Well I’ll be,” I answered. “It’s really two trees, an oak and a pine! They sprouted at the same spot, and their trunks fused at the base, until they split apart higher up.” Broad scales of pine bark knitted together with the shallow oak ridges at the seam.

Just like everyone back at the old family home, relatives we never knew we had. No matter how different or scattered, we all come from common ground. Deep down, we’re all Southerners. Look far enough back, and we’re all kin.

We grinned at each other, delighted to share that moment, and walked back to join the rest of the family.

- Luke Anthony, May 2009