Slow Saturdays

Just like a good Northerner, I drove up Lisa and Joseph’s driveway this morning listening to Bruce Springsteen. His sweet, sultry voice bellowed out “Hey what else can we do now except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair…come take my hand, We’re riding tonight to case the Promised Land…” as I passed under a canopy of multicolored leaves.  After a few tough weeks at school, this moment shared with The Boss and autumnal bliss seemed to satiate my need for peace. The slow cadence echoed the movement of the leaves blowing in the wind. For the first time in a while, I took a slow, deep breath.

It’s 50 degrees in Pittsburgh, last week there was a threat of snow showers. It has been in the 70s in Virginia. This morning, instead of a parka, I wear a light sweater.

Lisa greeted me with “A Southern Child’s Favorite Breakfast,” which consisted of: an apple turn over and Rice Krispie cereal over vanilla ice cream.

“It’s dairy” she said as she scooped it into the Fiestaware bowl. “Besides, it makes breakfast last longer.”

We sit on the deck and overlook the pond while we eat. You can see the water more clearly now because the trees are just starting to thin out.  

That’s the thing that I have discovered about the south, everything takes a bit longer. From the snail-like traffic near DC, to the slow rocking chairs that line the porches on my street, to the weather, things here take more time. It’s November and the trees still have a surprising number of leaves on them. By this point in the North, many of them have fallen onto the ground and have been scooped up by rakes, then jumped into by giggling children. Here, the leaves are just beginning to really cover the ground.

This week smelled like fall. That dead leaf-dry air-almost burning- smell wafted through the open windows of my apartment. The heat is almost disorienting to a Northerner, as anything above 70 degrees is hot. This time of year, I usually have to be bundled up to enjoy the sound of leaves crunching beneath my feet.

The more time I spend in Virginia and the more time I spend with Lisa, I am realizing how much life changes after you cross over the Mason-Dixon line. She grew up in Morrow, Georgia and raised her children in Tennessee. If anyone is an expert on Southern food and culture, it’s her. If there’s any question, you can open her freezer and see a prolific amount of pecans picked from her mama’s pecan tree. They will be delicious in the Salted Carmel Chocolate Pecan Pie recipe that she showed me in the most recent edition of Southern Living magazine.

According to Lisa, “Bless her little heart” is the kiss of death, especially spoken from a member of the junior league because “No good southern woman ever puts dark meat on a chicken salad.”

Also, every good southerner had a collection of “calling cards” that were handed out to visitors who stopped by to chat if you happened to be out or if you were “indisposed.”

Joseph, like me, is from the North, where you were available no matter what. There was no need for a calling card. Someone would knock on the door and come in for a cup of sugar or a beer at any time of day.  Then, they would sit on the porch and chat for a minute before you set out to accomplish your grocery list of errands.

Northerners are always on the go. We jam too many things into the day and focus more on convenience than we do on relishing in a moment. We rarely polish our silver and slow-cooked grits are never a breakfast staple.

Although I am a damn-Yankee at heart, there’s something lovely about enjoying the slow pace.  I rock on a wicker chair as I see the poplar trees wearing their best fall-attire. It’s what my mother used to call the “peak weekend” because all of the leaves have changed color, but they haven’t let go of the branches yet. They are taking their time. Even now, as the wind blows, the leaves slowly rattle. Their euphonious rustle might just be the Southern equivalent to Bruce.