A few weeks ago D and Alex made a trip to Mississippi without me. At some point while they were there D and Mama determined that a supper of fried catfish was in order, and as a result of that decision Alex made his inaugural trip to the fish camp.

Quite frankly I was a little teary-eyed about missing such a huge milestone in my child’s life.

I’m still trying to get over it.

According to D, Alex was initially a little uncertain about eating a fried food that had, you know, BONES, but eventually he realized that OH MY WORD, THIS FISH IS DELICIOUS, WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME ABOUT THIS BEFORE, and he proceeded to eat a whole piece of catfish off of his daddy’s plate.

If you’re a Southerner, you know that’s a memory book moment right there.

Well, this past Friday, just as Alex and I were crossing the Mississippi / Alabama line, he piped up from the backseat and said, “Mama? Can we please go to the fish camp tonight?”

I don’t know when I’ve experienced a greater swell of maternal pride.

So I quickly picked up my phone, called my mama and made all the necessary arrangements.

I don’t mess around when it comes to large quantities of food fried in peanut oil, my friends.

Later that night we went to a fish camp on the outskirts of my hometown. It’s a no-frills kind of place: cement block walls, long picnic-style tables, and plastic tableware.

But when you’re eating this…

…who really gives a rip about the atmosphere?

Alex was WOUND UP, to say the least. We went to the fish camp with both of his grandmothers, my aunt and uncle, my cousin Paige and her family, and having SO MANY! RELATIVES! IN THE SAME! PLACE! was just about more than his little four year-old heart could bear.

This is the little man with his cousin Joseph. Joseph is almost a year old, which pretty much means that he’s at that stage where I COULD JUST EAT HIM UP, OH MY WORD, HOW CAN THE WORLD CONTAIN SO MUCH CUTENESS?

Alex had big fun snuggling up with Martha / Mother / “Martie,” and I’ll have you know that Martha, the woman who can eat one Pringle and be completely satisfied, ate two whole catfish filets, hush puppies, French fries and cole slaw.

So clearly she is done with all her eating for 2007.

She’ll probably have a half a grape at the beginning of 2008.

If she’s even remotely hungry by then.

Not even my mama could calm down the the little man. She usually is able to work her dial-it-down-a-notch magic on him, but he’d have none of that at the fish camp. He was far too busy throwing cracker wrappers and crawling underneath the table.

And also: there was a lot of fake burping.

He did pause mid-cracker to take a picture with me.

Yeah. I know. I haven’t been this blonde since 1982. When it was my natural color.

And I really do like it. I do.

However, it does make me feel a bit like a local news anchor. Or perhaps even a sideline reporter on ESPN.

I mean, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the phrase “BACK TO YOU, CHRIS!” has been playing non-stop in my head for the last three days.

I’m also fighting the urge to buy an array of Sensible Suits in colors that would hold up well under the glare of TV studio lights.

See? My child wanted to look at Joseph. He really did. But he was hypnotized by the blinding glare of my hair. He literally could not turn away.

But that’s okay. I was affected in much the same way by the fried catfish.

You know, perhaps my hair and the catfish could co-anchor the five o’clock news.

It’s certain to be a ratings bonanza.

From time to time I get emails from people who want to know what’s so distinctive about the Southern region of the U.S. I’m always surprised by how difficult it is for me to articulate all the traditions and eccentricities that make this part of the world so special; the way of life down here is such an inextricable part of who I am that it’s nearly impossible for me to analyze it.

And on the odd occasion when I do try to capture the uniqueness of the South with words, I’m always reminded of Scout Finch‘s explanation of her fondness for books: “…I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.” That’s exactly how I feel about this place, this part of the country that has always been my home.

Being Southern may not be genetic, but it’s most definitely in my blood.

And that is why, when I received the following email yesterday, I was utterly delighted – all the way down to my painted-with-bashful-pink-polish toes:

Boomama,

My dear friend from south Georgia informs me it is inappropriate to wear open toed shoes after Labor Day. What?? Of course I won’t wear white, but open toed too? It’s too hot in TX for that. She also won’t wear open toes until after Easter. She got the evil eye from her mama for doing that very thing this year. So what do you think?? I LOVE for my painted toes to show, and I’d wear open toed shoes all year round if I could!!

Jen

Y’all, I clapped my hands when I read Jen’s email.

Why? Because I know how much Southern women talk about this very issue.

And because we love us some old-fashioned etiquette in our neck of the woods.

For example.

We love saying (and hearing) yes ma’am, no ma’am, yes sir, and no sir.

We love to have the door opened for us and don’t think for one second that it’s patronizing. It’s kind.

We love to take the good china out of the cabinet and use it year-round.

We love fresh flowers when company’s coming, handwritten thank-you notes on monogrammed notecards, and baking a pound cake for your neighbor’s second cousin’s daughter whose dog just died.

And last but not least, we love appropriate seasonal attire.

In fact, when I was growing up in Mississippi, there were several hard and fast Southern Fashion Guidelines:

always wear hose to church

red shoes are for harlots and children

pearls in the daytime, diamonds at night (with the exception of wedding rings, of course)

no hats after the sun goes down

no white below the belt before Easter or after Labor Day

no linen clothes before Easter or after Labor Day

no sandals before Easter or after Labor Day

So you can see Jen’s dilemma.

Now there’s no doubt that the rules have relaxed considerably – in the last ten or fifteen years, especially. I personally haven’t worn hose to church or otherwise since 1998 (with the exception of black tights in the winter), and if all goes as planned I’ll never wear them again. Also, red shoes are fun and funky regardless of age or, um, harlot status, and as far as diamonds go, wear ’em if you’ve got ’em. By all means. Whenever you want.

However, the hat rule still stands, y’all. It stands forever, and it stands proud. Because why in the sam hill do you need a hat in the dark? To protect your face from the glare of the moon?

But as far as the last three rules – the pre-Easter / post-Labor Day wardrobe trio, if you will – today’s Southern women are all over the place, honestly. Some wear white shoes or white pants or even WHITE LINEN PANTS year-round with all manner of devil-may-care fashion abandon. Some (*cough*MARTHA AND SISSIE*cough*) stick to all the rules all the time and will continue to do just that until they’re called home to Glory because why, why would you break the rules, why?

As for me, I wear sandals well into October (yes, Jen – OPEN-TOED) because it’s hotter than sin down here until then and I don’t really care for the look of capri pants with, you know, boots. I’ll wear linen after Labor Day if it’s a dark color, but any light-colored linen goes into the summer clothes closet just as soon as Labor Day hits. And I don’t even own white shoes because, well, I have some issues about white shoes, but we’ll just leave those issues alone for now, ‘kay?

So in conclusion: Jen, I think you should feel free to wear your open-toed shoes after Labor Day. Since it’s a bit of a gray area, I like to apply what I call The Tacky Test. And bottom line: I think it’s way more tacky to let your feet sweat based on principle than it is to wear a cute summer shoe into the fall months.

Plus, it’s like Mama used to tell me: “What’s inside is more important than what’s outside. People will forget a pair of tacky shoes, but they won’t forget a tacky heart.”

Or something like that.

She also used to say that tacky is as tacky does, but I’m still not really sure what that means. And I’m in my 30’s now.

However, I do know that I’d rather show up to a late-night New Year’s Eve party wearing an all-white ensemble with a hat AND open-toed shoes than to be tacky on the inside.

And that is one Southern rule that will never, ever change.