Mom’s Way

A son remembers that nobody did collards and cornbread better

By Tom Allen

My mother did not fancy herself a cook. Cooks were known for their, well, cooking. When I grew up, cooks were women. I don’t recall hearing a man referred to as “a good cook” even though some were good at cooking — fried fish or barbecued chicken. I guess Hubert Byrd was a cook, probably a good cook. He owned Sleepy’s Grill, in our community, and Lord, he could cook — hamburgers and hot dogs and the best chili.

In the rural culture of my childhood, cooks were women you paid to bake a 12-layer chocolate cake at Christmas or fix a pot of chicken pastry (pastry, not dumplin’s) because pastry was hard to make. There was always something on a cook’s stove — cold biscuits, fried applejacks, crispy fatback. Mom never paid anyone to cook anything. If she couldn’t cook it, we didn’t eat it.

Some cooks worked outside the home — schoolteachers, nurses, mill hands. Regardless of employment, for some, cooking was a side hustle, a second or, perhaps, only stream of income. Most cooks, like good beauticians, were extroverts, people-persons, so that chocolate cake or pot of pastry came with 30 minutes of conversation, the catching-up kind of conversation, not gossip. Cooks don’t gossip. Might lose a customer.

Cooks liked to cook. Mom cooked, not for enjoyment or for money, but out of necessity. We had to eat. Nevertheless, Mom was a good cook, or maybe I should say, she cooked good, at least I thought she did.

Mom baked, which comes under the umbrella of “cooking,” but only two things — coconut chess pie and peach cobbler. That pie was her go-to, year-round dessert. If someone had a baby, a hysterectomy, divorced or died, Mom delivered a coconut pie. Peach cobbler, made with canned peaches (the slippery, cling kind), was a summer dish, although canned peaches are on the shelves year-round. Two years ago, when she died, I included a copy of her handwritten cobbler recipe in the service bulletin. Folks smiled as they shared stories of pies and cobblers that accompanied her support and sympathy.

But my favorite meal Mom cooked was a Southern staple, as indigenous as “Dixie” or a “Bless your heart.” I didn’t miss the combo until I left home for college. Absence, I learned, affects the stomach as much as the heart. Her collards and cornbread filled the void; that combo was my only request when I came home, regardless of the season, since Mom cooked and froze the greens for future consumption.

Collards, those dark green, loose-leaf cultivars, are a fall crop, made sweeter by nip of a first frost. My dad sowed seed in late summer, then thinned and nurtured each plant. By November, he harvested the massive leaves for Mom to cook down in a pot of water, seasoned with fatback or bacon grease. No onion, garlic or red pepper flakes. Perhaps a sprinkle of sugar. Mom’s collards, unlike others I’ve eaten, were chopped fine, to the point you could eat them with a spoon. Collards were a traditional side at Thanksgiving and Christmas, but were just as good thawed and reheated during spring break or with corn and butterbeans from Dad’s July garden.

Collards cooking have an unforgettable smell — pungent, foul. A saucer of cider vinegar or a scented candle toned down but never dispelled the aroma. But that smell was a small price to pay for a plate of pure goodness.

Cornbread was the essential accompaniment. Mom fried her simple version in lard, later canola oil. The batter — Old Mill of Guilford cornmeal, scant water, pinch of sugar, pinch of salt — was dropped by spoonfuls into an iron skillet, where it cooked up, thin and crispy. “Lacy cornbread” she called it. Leftover pones sat on the stove, a paper towel underneath to soak up any grease. Sweet tea completed the meal. Hard to come by in Kentucky, where I attended seminary.

Two years ago, we ate the last package of Mom’s frozen collards. Mother’s Day without her still falls bittersweet. What I wouldn’t give for a plate of collards, lacy cornbread, and her strong, brewed tea, yet I will forever cherish memories of a bitter green made savory and sweet by one who cooked but most of all, was simply . . . good.  PS

Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church, Southern Pines.

Greenus Envious

Tips from the tried and failed

By Susan S. Kelly

So it’s finally a warm weekend in spring, and you long to have something to pick, prune, pluck or even deadhead in your yard, garden, or the scorched-earth, weed-whacked plot that passes for it.  But you’re too busy or lazy to learn Latin names, and it’s embarrassing to go to the garden center and say, “I want those, you know, pink flowers that are tall,” or “ . . . that tree that looks pretty in the spring.”

Herewith, therefore, your tried-and-true primer, from someone whose personal dirt’s worth is incalculable due to all the tried-and-failed specimens I purchased, trucked in, planted, tended, and either rejoiced or mourned over. Or, alternatively, ripped out, chopped down, and consigned to the mulch pile. Because, in my yard, like professors seeking tenure, you either produce or perish.

Magnolia — Best climbing tree ever. But as a flower, forget it. The blooms are never low enough to cut, and besides, they only last a day. Leave it alone and just sniff the blooms big as plates. Come fall, your children can play army with the seedpods.

Gardenia — Only reliable if you live east of Raleigh. As for picked longevity, ditto the one-day warning above. Touch the vanilla petals and your invisible skin oils will brown them not invisibly. Heavenly aroma, though I rejected them in my wedding bouquet because the overpowering sweetness tends to provoke a gag reflex.  Still, nice in a teacup or that silver scallop shell your grandmother used as an ashtray.

Camellia —  Cannot be picked or arranged satisfactorily. For viewing only. Bonus: unlike azaleas, stay glossy green all year.

Orange daylilies — My neighbor calls them “privy lilies,” presumably because folks once planted them to beautify the outhouse. But they beat the heck out of the stubby gold hybrids planted in interstate medians. Go for it.

Queen Anne’s lace — Field and roadside freebies, but bring them inside and they proceed to shed fine white dust all over everything.

Marigolds — Often dumped upon as plebeian blooms, but for this commoner, nothing smells as good as one of their stems, broken.

Cleome — Pink, pretty, proliferous, and self-seeding. What else could you ask for in an airy weed that loves neglect, red clay, and 1,000-degree days? In late summer, take the seeds to the office, to a friend, or, for that matter, to another place in the yard. Strew with abandon.

Black-eyed Susans — As the Chatham Blanket tagline once boasted, they cover a multitude of sins. Require little effort and even less skill to stuff in a glass, metal or pottery container. Do not disparage that which can withstand full sun when you can’t. You call them invasive, I call them indispensable.

Knockout roses —  The Johnny-come-lately “it” flowering shrub. Utterly unpickable, but compensates for this shortcoming in sheer size and volume.

Peonies — The ultimate bloomer. Often disqualified for, as the farmers like to say, seasonality, but worth the wait, the space and the ants. Go ahead, gird your loins, and bring yourself to cut and enjoy them before a 20-minute thunderstorm causes irreparable loss and gnashing of teeth.

Hydrangeas — Bingo! Once upon a time, my mother referred to hydrangeas as “trash shrubs.” I love this. Or rather, I love reminding her of this now that no one can live without them.

Ivy — Just, no. You’ll be sorry. Plus, snakes like it. Use pachysandra instead.

There you have it. No more feeling humiliated by Biltmore with its perfect planters and borders and gardens featuring every floral texture and contrast and interest which nevertheless are superior to previously-envied Disney World’s planters and borders and gardens. Because Biltmore’s flowers actually grow, rather than simply get replaced by Snow White’s 426 dwarves every night.

Or, how not to waste your time or money on What Won’t Work Because We’re Not England.  PS

Susan Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and proud new grandmother.

Spring Forward

But only when the cows do

By Ray Linville

If it wasn’t for the railroads, we might not be losing an hour of sleep on the second Sunday in March when we spring forward and advance to daylight saving time.

The railroads, after all, are responsible for pushing us to adopt time zones in this country to improve communications and travel coordination. Until then, time zones were determined locally. Can you image the chaos if Raleigh and central North Carolina were on a different time than Asheville?

Actually, something similar did happen. From 1883 (when our country’s four time zones were established) to 1946, Asheville and points west in this state were in the central time zone while we kept time with others in the eastern zone. After time zones became standard, it was an easy step to create daylight saving time — and necessary during wartime as a fuel-saving measure.

Benjamin Franklin, famous for the maxim “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise,” knew better. He didn’t rise at daybreak, and he certainly didn’t want to see the sun an hour early. When he encouraged people to get up early — for the benefit of saving on candle use in the evening — he meant it as a joke.

Tar Heels might have more in common with Pennsylvanian Franklin than we realize. In 1945 when World War II ended, the federal requirement for “war time,” as DST was known, also ended. For decades, observance of DST throughout the country was inconsistent. However, North Carolina never observed DST again until 1966, when the state began following the national schedule.

The argument that DST benefits farmers was long ago debunked. Cows follow a schedule based on the sun, not the hour on our clocks. Even energy conservation today is questionable because any savings in reduced lighting are more than offset by additional demands for air conditioning in the summer evenings.

It was hard enough before the age of the internet to spring forward. Now it’s almost impossible. High schoolers are up late and get so little sleep that their parents are asking for later and later start times.

My granddaughter, Katie, now in seventh grade, has it bad. Because high school students can’t get up early, the middle schoolers win the first bus routes. She sets her alarm clock for 6:15 each school morning to get up for the earliest bus in her county. Imagine her joy for springing forward this month.

In contrast, when I was a teenager in the era of no social media or video games, I got up before sunrise to complete a morning newspaper route well before school began. That alone required that I went to bed early, regardless of Franklin’s advice.

Then in college I struggled to attend 8 o’clock classes. Yes, colleges used to have classes that early.

South Carolina may be leading the region in determining what choice is better — daylight or standard. One legislator has proposed a bill that lets voters decide in a referendum this November if that state should continue to observe daylight time. How would you vote?

For me, the decision would be easy. My days of springing forward are over. I’m with the cows. Sunlight determines my schedule, unless the railroads again have a better idea.

Ray Linville writes about Southern food, history and culture.

For the Love of Nothing

An entire month devoted to . . . whatever

By Susan S.Kelly

I speak now for that silent minority who fear to voice, confess, or admit their glad anticipation for, their deep abiding love for, their eternal gratitude for . . .  January. Believe ye: there are those of us who crave every endless 31 days of a month so roundly dreaded by so many.

Bring it, baby.

For quad-A overachievers, list-makers, and borderline OCD peeps like myself, January is the season of somnolence, of letting go. For over-organized souls, nothing beats a full-on month of . . . nothing.

No holidays, and therefore no searching, purchasing, wrapping, hiding. No candy. No centerpieces. No costumes or cocktails. No (unspoken but acknowledged) competing for best dessert or coleslaw or fireworks or slalom or Easter basket or parade float. Personal bonus: no family birthdays.

No yard work. Everything is leafless, hideous, and charmless, and with any luck, will stay that way for six more weeks. The only outdoor chore is filling the feeder. No to-dos of raking, mowing — it’s too early to even prune. Nothing needs fertilizing, watering. Even kudzu is temporarily tamed to a crinkled, wrinkled weed. I’m so thankful it’s too early to force quince or forsythia; no sense of obligation there, and if you still force narcissus, I have a collection of lovely forcing vases and trays and even the rocks that you’re welcome to. Sorry, but I need to hold on to the gin that stiffens the stems. And I love my roses, but, boy, do I love when they’re whacked off and not producing, and therefore not accusing me of leaving them to grow blowsy and frowsy rather than cutting and delivering them to someone whose life, living room, and outlook would be improved by — oh, never mind. I may be the only person you know who gets depressed when the first bulbs begin blooming.

No fundraisers on PBS. This is huge.

Nothing at the farmer’s market equals absolution from waking early to haul yourself there, and trying to fairly spread your vegetable benevolence to several farmers with pleading eyes. Nothing edible locally means seasonal broccoli and citrus with unknown origins are just fine. As for other aspects of eating, in January it’s practically unpatriotic not to exist on semi-solid foodstuffs straight from your Crock-Pot. Go ahead, add another packet of taco mix to that pork butt, onion soup mix to that chuck roast, chili mix to that ground beef. Dow, Inc. knows: Better living through chemicals.

No campaigns, primaries, elections. No yard signs. No door-to-door, ’cause it’s too cold for solicitors, and if you haven’t gotten your subscriptions and wrapping paper by now, sorry. And altar guilds everywhere — Rejoice! and God rest ye merry gentlemen and women — no need for changing altar hangings and linens. Even at church, once you get past Epiphany, there’s a nice long stretch of nothing until the deprivations of Lent. As for resolutions, by mid-month they’re mostly moot, admit it.

Within the narrow demographic of January adorers, there’s an even smaller contingent: the snow lovers. For those of us dreamers, hopers, prayers and devotees of white stuff, January is the month during which those fervent desires are most likely to be fulfilled. For those who disloyally decamp for sunny Southern climes, desert isles, and ski slopes, all the better. Less car and foot traffic to mar the peaceful white perfection of a snowfall. Sorry, dear, I couldn’t get to the grocery store for supper supplies. Feel free to scrape whatever’s left in the . . . Crock-Pot.

It occurs to me that, were I ever to get a face-lift, January would be an opportune time.

Isn’t it divine to go to the movies and catch up on all those blockbusters you missed and get just the seat you want? Because no one else is there. Plus, you’re exonerated from even going to the movies: Everybody knows nothing Oscar-worthy is released between January and March.

Not that I encourage sloth, far from it. January is the month made for domestic industries, with the iPod blasting in your ears and no fear of anyone catching you atonally belting tunes with Justin Timberlake or Taylor Swift. Consolidate coupons, cull the catalogs, schedule your spanking, sparkling pristine new calendar with all the birthdays you forgot last year. Polish silver. Then, transfer your earbuds to your laptop, scoot your socked feet to the fire, and proceed to unabashedly binge Netflix, knowing you’ve earned and are entitled to The Right to Relax.

Oh, poor despised, derided month, that span of gloom and chill, so scorned and shunned by humanity, I’ll be there for you, bundled and content, cheering you on. Hermits, unite. We knew what Oscar Wilde really was referring to when he uttered, “the love that dare not speak its name” — we few, we happy few, who wallow, with glee, in January.  PS

Susan Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and proud new grandmother.

Splainin’ Stuff

Home for the holidays, where it’s not necessary

By Haley Ray

“I bet it’s because you grew up in the South,” my Southern California born and bred college roommate asserted one evening. We had been discussing food, and I shared my loving, yet turbulent, relationship with dessert. Cadbury chocolate bars, pecan pie, bread pudding, crème brûlée, cheesecake, I do not discriminate when it comes to sugar. Sometimes the addiction runs rampant and I find myself racking up two to three sweet treats a day. When that happens, I have to go cold turkey and swear off all dessert for weeks, like breaking up with a boyfriend you know is bad news but has a charmingly consistent way of wriggling back into your heart.

My roommate, who “really doesn’t like eating dessert,” had reasoned that this appalling sugar habit must be unique to the Southeastern chunk of the United States, where sweet tea is king and comfort food, queen. Bless her heart. I informed her that I had actually spent my formative years in North Carolina eating meals comprised of grilled salmon and veggies. Sugar consumption had a strict parental control, and it was rare to find a box of cookies or a pint of ice cream in the kitchen. I had to get my fix at friends’ houses. I didn’t taste sweet tea until high school, since my parents — Michigan natives — thought it was a disgusting excuse for iced tea.

Still, despite the evidence proving otherwise, my roommate couldn’t be pried from her initial conviction. I didn’t know what else could help her understand that this was a nationwide epidemic, and not at all special to the South. The fact that the third roommate in our Los Angeles apartment was from Boston and also possessed a sizable sweet tooth did nothing to sway her. And Massachusetts doesn’t even have sweet tea.

So I let the issue slip from conversation, certain that no matter what I said she would still hold poor North Carolina accountable for corrupting my food preferences. Since moving west, misconceptions of my home state were a common theme in conversations. I grew accustomed to defending the South, usually to people who had grown up in the promised land of California. The Southern variety of Californians, specifically long-term residents of Los Angeles and Orange County, seemed to think I had been raised deprived of modern culture, eating fried chicken for breakfast, and driving unpaved roads. 

After getting over the insult, I was entertained by the confidence behind their assumptions. After knowing me for all of two weeks, one friend wondered why my parents didn’t simply uproot their lives and follow me to California if they missed their only child. “I think they would be much happier here,” she commented, as we idled in brutal Los Angeles traffic, watching a smoggy sunset. I’m sure the suggestion came from a good place, no more controversial than recommending vitamin C for a common cold or yoga for a tight hamstring. To her, crowded SoCal probably seemed like a wonderful spot to live out retirement years, though she had yet to visit any state in the South, much less Pinehurst, North Carolina.

I don’t blame Californians for this particular strain of regionalism. The left coast state has a long tradition of existing as the land of milk and honey, the golden paradise of America where anything is possible. This tradition has saturated California’s caricature in the media for decades, and will most likely continue for decades to come.

Californians are accustomed to transplants, lured by the state’s promises of success and wealth, all perpetuated by popular culture. Shows like The O.C., Beverly Hills, 90210, Entourage and Baywatch splash palm trees and beautiful coastal California homes on television screens. Iconic movies including La La Land, Vertigo and Clueless sculpt the nation’s collective view of the state. They, on the other hand, believe Gone With the Wind and The Dukes of Hazzard are the pinnacle of Southern culture. Portrayals of the Southern pace of life are unerringly unmodern, the accents thick, and the characters slow to understand essential contemporary values, like good education and dentistry. Most media depictions contain overarching stereotypes, but those of Dixie feel far more dated.

As a North Carolinian living in California, I started smiling when people balked at my lack of twang or how frequently I ate avocado, and accepted that they might never understand the virtues of my homeland. The open-minded, diverse communities of the American West have their advantages, but I’ll happily forfeit a coast of balmy palms to celebrate Christmas in the land of pines.  PS

Goody Pouch

Invite a marsupial to Thanksgiving

By Ray Linville

Four years ago on an obviously very undemanding day, the N.C. state legislature decided that we needed an official marsupial. In case you don’t remember middle school science class, a marsupial is a mammal whose babies are born incompletely developed.

The mother carries them initially in a pouch on her belly where they suckle. If asked for an example of a marsupial, you’d probably identify the kangaroo. But kangaroos live in Australia, not here. Isn’t there a better marsupial that relates to our area?

Do you remember the old Pogo comic strip drawn by Walt Kelly? Although it was discontinued years ago, it still resonates in our regional culture. Kelly was a master of social and political satire, and he crafted Pogo to express acerbic ideas and dispense uncommon wisdom such as, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

Occasionally you can still find Pogo artifacts and mementos in antique shops and novelty stores. Then you remember that Pogo is not your typical mammal. He’s an opossum, or as most locals say — possum — the only marsupial in our area, actually in all of North America.

Because a possum has 50 teeth, “grinning like a possum” has been a term used for generations. “Playing possum,” another regional expression, refers to how the animal faces danger by pretending to be asleep, sometimes for up to four hours.

When Europeans and Africans arrived on our shores five centuries ago, they considered the possum such a strange creature. Captain John Smith was typical in his bewilderment. A year after being in Jamestown, he described the possum as having a head like a swine, a tail like a rat, and the “bigness” of a cat.

Because possums are nocturnal, you probably haven’t seen one recently (except for Pogo replicas). However, when you’re working in your garden or walking through the woods, you can appreciate their diligence: a single possum can eat 4,000 ticks a week. Think about that when Lyme disease is discussed in the news.

If you have seen a possum recently, it was probably on the side of a highway, what we call roadkill. In fact, isn’t that the usual image of a possum? Roadkill?

But earlier generations wouldn’t have confused the tasty possum for roadkill. In fact, Grandma probably had a recipe for “Sweet Taters and Possum Meat.” When the Rhythm Rockers recorded a song with that title, maybe they were thinking about their favorite Thanksgiving meal by their grandmothers.

Although your family may not have served possum this fall (at least not yet), let your imagination run wild and think about previous generations. What do you think was put in a pot as game meat and flavored stews? If rabbit and squirrel were added to Brunswick stew, why not possum?

Fortunately today the federal government dictates what must be in Brunswick stew — at least two meats and one has to be poultry. Of course, nothing specifies what to include as the second meat (or exclude). Maybe next time, you should ask.

Even the White House has served possum. No joke. You have to go back more than 100 years to find the president who was the biggest fan of possum meat: the 27th, William Howard Taft.

Taft was treated to a banquet with 100 fat possums (served with sweet potatoes, naturally) before his inauguration. At his first White House Thanksgiving, he served a 26-pound possum. Perhaps that explains why he was a one-term president.

Do you want to serve a novel dish to your family or guests? Perhaps the N.C. General Assembly is right — we not only need an official state marsupial, it needs to be on our table this Thanksgiving.  PS

Ray Linville writes about Southern food, history and culture.

Southwords

Death Valley Daze

Or welcome to the Dixie Stampede

By Jim Moriarty

One September on a travel assignment ferreting out backwoods golf courses in South Carolina, I spent a night in a hotel just off Interstate 95 festooned with enough University of South Carolina Gamecock regalia to dress every piece of poultry at Tyson Farms in garnet and black.

“You sure take your football serious around here,” I said to the desk clerk.

“Naw,” he replied as he checked to make sure the names on my driver’s license and credit card matched. “It’s only life or death.”

What I didn’t tell him was that I was also the football photographer for Clemson University. I decided to keep that bit of information to myself, having made the simple calculation that I would prefer my wake-up call not be accompanied by the discharge of a 12-gauge shotgun. Photographing Clemson’s home games was something I did for about 20 years, beginning in the Refrigerator Perry days. It was a dramatic change of pace from more staid assignments at haunts like Pebble Beach or Augusta National. Golf has its exciting moments but rarely is one player hell-bent on hitting another one so hard his liver exits his body through a nostril.

When my son was 11, give or take, I got him a pass so he could be down on the field with me. This practice was generally frowned upon since it is, in point of fact, dangerous. During pregame warm-ups, the last players to take the field are the hog mollies, the big nasties. The late Chester McGlockton was at Clemson that year, and I told my son to watch number 91 when he trotted out of the locker room and down the sideline. Big Chet stood 6-foot-5 and played most of his 12 NFL seasons at somewhere between 335 and 350 pounds. His left leg was larger than my boy. Hell, his right leg was larger than me. I’m not sure either one of us has seen a bigger human being since.

During the game, I made certain to keep my son stowed well out of harm’s way, behind the Clemson bench. The biggest thing I wanted him to get hit by was a 102-pound cheerleader. I was adamant about his staying back from the sidelines because I’d seen what could happen. I’d felt it, too.

You may be familiar with a photograph known as “The Catch.” It was taken in 1982 by the great Sports Illustrated photographer Walter Iooss Jr., showing Dwight Clark (a Clemson alum), catching a pass from the San Francisco 49ers’ Joe Montana in his fingertips to beat the Dallas Cowboys. The 35 mm picture is actually a horizontal, made with a 50mm lens Walter had hanging around his neck. There is nothing more aggravating than having the action happen right in front of you and all you’ve got in your hands is a 600mm telescopic lens and the only picture you get is a close-up of a tooth.

Anyway, one year at Clemson I was positioned in the back of the end zone, à la great Iooss. The Tigers’ tight end was running a pattern vaguely similar to the Dwight Clark’s. Recognizing the developing play, I pulled the camera with the short lens up to my eye to get the same shot Walter got. But this time the defensive coverage was too good, and Clemson didn’t have Joe Montana throwing the ball. The pass sailed high and incomplete. As the tight end and the defensive back exited the back of the end zone, I jumped to my feet. We became a threesome. I put my hand on the tight end and backpedaled as the two players began to slow down. No harm, no foul. Until the moment the tight end stepped on my foot. Planted firmly in the ground, that was as far as I was going. Since the remainder of my body was still attached to the foot, over backwards I went. The tight end, followed in short order by the defensive back, stutter-stepped across my chest leaving behind a pattern of cleat marks that, the next morning, resembled a violent outbreak of chicken pox.

The then-assistant Sports Information Director Tim Bourret, a friend of mine, was doing color commentary on the radio. When I bounced to my feet after being trampled by two large human beings, he could barely contain himself. “That’s our photographer!”

There have been a lot of great moments in Death Valley. Clemson is, after all, the reigning national champion. I’m reasonably confident, however, that I’m the only photographer who ever got a standing ‘O’ from the students sitting on the hill.

What’s in a Southern Nickname?

By Susan Kelly

Next to rappers, I’m pretty sure Southerners have the corner on nicknames. I’m not talking “Dukes of Hazzard” or country music Cooters or Scooters or Bubbas or Buds. Ditto Liz-for-Elizabeth or Jack-for-John or Meg-for-Margaret. I’m talking the ones that get acquired or bestowed, usually in high school or college, and then “stuck.”

When it comes to those sorts of monikers, nobody cares about body shaming, ergo my friend Duck, for the way he walks. Or my uncle, known lifelong as Squirrel for his dentist’s-dream buck teeth. An Atlanta pal is known as Dirt because of his grooming, or lack thereof. My frat friend Picture Window, because his hair framed his face just so. Or my square-jawed, bespectacled-since-6 husband, who, innocently brushing his teeth as a new boy sophomore at boarding school, looked up from the communal sink, caught a senior’s eye in the mirror, and has born the nickname Catfish ever since. Because he looks like one.

Nicknames trump passports, birthmarks and bumper stickers for identification purposes, since the origins can be traced like a zip line to character and personality. Hence Zero, for the classmate who had, well, zero personality; somewhat akin to Goober and Simple and Wedge, the latter being the simplest tool known to man, so you can draw your own conclusions about the individuals they were tagged to. Aesop, for the frat bro with a tendency toward lying; Eeyore for the eternally gloomy one; Preacher for the rule-follower. Bullet, which neatly covered both head shape and disposition. (All the references in this article are absolutely authentic. Actual names are omitted to protect myself from libel lawsuits and horn-mad assassins.)

Last-name logic plays into some nicknames, such as Blender, for the last name Waring. You must be of a certain age to understand that one. In fact, you have to be of a certain age to understand that I was called by my last name for a decade because every fourth girl born in the ’50s was named Susan. For a female, it’s sometimes best just to let a name go, without prying for an explanation. Hungry Dog is one. And T-Ball, for example. I just do not want to know. T-Ball’s brother’s name is Re-Ball. That, I get.

The only nickname you legitimately get to select is your grandparent name. (Purists who claim to “wait and see what comes out” get what they deserve.) And when it comes to that category, the hands-down prize belongs to the grandmother friend who dubbed herself Favorite. Wish I’d thought of it first.  PS

Susan Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and proud new grandmother.

Marriage in the Age of Social Media

The father of the bride-to-be gets a lesson in millennial weddings

By Tom Allen

June belongs to fathers and brides, except this father will walk his daughter down the aisle in August.

My wife and I knew the FaceTime call was coming. Our daughter Hannah’s boyfriend, Zach, gave us the heads-up. He planned to propose, at a lovely spot overlooking Grandfather Mountain, in Western North Carolina. When the ringtone sounded, everyone smiled through a few tears.

Hannah struck up a conversation with this nice chap her freshman year at N.C. State. They started dating early in her junior year. The “M” word came up, occasionally. He asked our blessing in December, proposed in February. “You can do this,” I told myself, much like I had when I learned I was going to be a father or the day we moved Hannah into her college dorm. “Millions of dads go through this every year,” I reasoned. Treading in the footsteps of Spencer Tracy and Steve Martin, I became, until August 19, the father of the bride.

Friends who’d been through the experience gave the same advice: “Keep quiet and write the checks.” I understand what’s required of the bride’s family — our bank account is leaner than it was three months ago. I’ve given up purchasing that red Toyota Tacoma flatbed truck (with extended cab, back-up camera and heated seats). Still, I shun the stereotype. No, I won’t lose sleep over Hannah’s choice of hors d’oeuvres for the reception. I really don’t have an opinion on the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses (although my mouth dropped when informed there would be 10). But Hannah has a sister in college. Retirement looms. I’m not content to live on beans and bread for the sake of a reception feast that rivals William and Kate’s. Grass-fed prime rib and imported Champagne? Surely Pinterest offers creative ways to serve chicken and green beans. Would Emily Post sneer at a Sara Lee pound cake for dessert?

What to wear? What to wear? The guys (10, of course) are donning black suits and skinny ties, the color of which has yet to be determined. No sweat. I’m sure, after numerous texts, Snapchats and Instagrams, the perfect shade will emerge. And how hipster will I look in a skinny tie, whatever that is? Hannah and my wife, Beverly, scoped out mother-of-the-bride dresses on a recent Saturday. Feeling a bit left out, I stayed home and mowed the lawn. I anticipated pictures. A text requested my opinion. “Lovely . . . for the grandmother of the bride,” I responded. The second ring, a few minutes later brought a similar comeback. “A little low cut, don’tcha think?” After the third ding, everyone agreed. Emojis confirmed the choice. “You look smashing,” I texted my wife. “Love the bling.”

I look forward to the father-daughter dance, at the reception. Though I’m partial to “My Girl,” by The Temptations, Hannah has a Stevie Wonder hit in mind. Either will be fine. We both love to dance, and I’ll love dancing with her. We haven’t decided whether we’ll interrupt for a real throw-down. Bruno Mars and “Uptown Funk”? Hannah and her dad could go viral.

I think I’m ready to walk my daughter down the aisle — a bittersweet moment, same as when she was born, when I waved goodbye on her first day of kindergarten, and when we moved her in to her college dorm. I’ll selfie a pep talk. “You can do this. Millions of dads do every year.”

The ceremony will be intensely personal, given my profession. After another minister asks, “Who brings Hannah to marry Zach?” and I’ll respond, place her hand in his, then I’ll officiate their ceremony. I’m honored she asked, and like walking her down the aisle or waving goodbye as we drove away from the dorm, I’ll get through it, just fine. Besides, my officiant fee is a bargain.

What words will I offer Hannah and Zach? I’ll encourage them to be kind, to dream, to pray. I may tell them to pay off their credit cards every month and change the oil in the cars every 3,000 miles. I might remind them of how fortunate they are to have families who love them, friends who stick by them, and faith to guide them in tough times. We’ll be sad that my parents, who loved and nurtured Hannah and her sister, died before the happy day (my mother appreciated a fine glass of Champagne). I’ll remind Hannah and Zach that marriage is serious business, that living with imperfect people takes work. I’ll bless their union, then introduce a new couple, and a daughter with a new last name.

Beverly and I will smile, with the occasional tear, while the family poses for pictures. Afterwards we’ll celebrate like our wedding is the only one in the world.

On what I suspect will be a hot, humid August night, Beverly and I will say our goodbyes and watch as Hannah and Zach’s happiest day winds down. I’m not sure if they’ll drive away in Zach’s college Kia or a horse-drawn carriage. Do millennials Uber to their wedding night destination? Who knows? I’ll rest well, perhaps dream of that red Toyota Tacoma, and wonder when I’ll get to be the father of the bride again.  PS

Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church, Southern Pines.

My Mother’s Pocketbook

By Tom Allen

Mom said her boy loved to plunder. Sounds illegal. I prefer “explore” but will make do with “nosey.”

Two places were off limits to my curiosity — the bottom drawer of Dad’s chest of drawers and Mom’s pocketbook.

Mom never called her pocketbook a “purse.” Something colloquial, perhaps. The first time I took a peek, her pocketbook was on the kitchen table. I, perhaps 5 or 6 and not tall enough to look inside, leaned the bag in for a good snoop. “Leave that alone. That’s my pocketbook.” Her tone of voice reinforced the prohibition. I apologized and got the message — hands off, that’s mine.

Mom owned several pocketbooks — one she carried most days, the others for dressier occasions. She preferred darker bags for winter, softer colors for spring and summer. I have no idea why the prohibition against snooping. I doubt she carried anything illegal or illicit; what mattered was that the contents were her business, her stuff. And don’t we all need a space for odds and ends? Some nook or niche to stash a pen or some quarters or a few Tic-Tacs? Maybe a drawer or, if you’re lucky, a closet? Mom carried the usual items — a wallet, some Kleenex, a tube of lipstick. What else was for her to know and for me not to find out.

If my dad drove a car until the wheels fell off, Mom would tote a pocketbook until its fabric was worn or dirty. And, unlike Imelda Marcos, Mom wasn’t a packrat. When the time came, she dumped the purse and bought a new one, probably from Belk, with a coupon, on Seniors Day. When Mom became a grandmother, a pocketbook was the ideal Mother’s Day gift from our daughters. Mom could make it last, at least until the next May, if not the Christmas after.

I recall, as a teenager, the first time Mom asked me to fetch the wallet from her purse. Was she serious?  Was this a set-up? Would my hand be mauled by a steel trap, a finger bitten off by a pocket-sized varmint? I snatched the wallet, without another glimpse into the nether regions. At last, I must be worthy of her trust. Even today, when my wife asks me to retrieve something from her purse, I get a little uneasy.

Mom’s last pocketbook was a camel-colored Kim Rogers number with a mismatched Aigner wallet, purchased, I’m sure, from Belk. Age and illness robbed her of mobility and independence. A move from her home of 60 years to a furnished assisted-living residence disconnected her from familiar possessions as well as her few living friends. My dad’s death, six months before hers, compounded the loss. At this final residence, Mom — whether sitting in her lift chair or napping in her hospital bed — kept her pocketbook nearby, ready with a pen, a tissue, or just a reminder that something still belonged to her.

I handled financial matters in Mom’s last year and, with her permission, took anything from her wallet or pocketbook that might compromise security or identity. She understood, yet when poking around for her wallet, there was still a sense I’d violated her last private space. Even more, there was a sense that the child had attained adulthood. As the circle closes, the son becomes the parent, the caregiver — an honor but, at times, sad, even terrifying.

After she moved, I left $12 — a ten and two ones — in her wallet. Eight months later, on the night she died, I took her pocketbook home.  I did not look inside for months. When I did, I found that $10 bill. Perhaps she tipped a caring aide or gave a folded bill to a granddaughter as grandparents often do. Along with the wallet, I found high school snapshots of our daughters that Mom could proudly show. There was a Cover Girl pressed-powder compact, a red Revlon lipstick, a handful of tissues, two pens, some melted Halls cough drops and a few coins. Pen marks covered the fabric lining.  Lipstick stained a zippered compartment. The soft faux leather still smelled like the house where I grew up, a place my parents made into a home.

Mom’s pocketbook rests in the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers, not off limits to anyone.  I’m saving it for a plundering grandchild who might walk away with a $10 bill. Me? I’m content to watch memories in the making, while thinking of how very happy one mother would be.  PS

Tom Allen is a longtime — and deeply loved — contributor to PineStraw.