My southern identity was put before the court of public opinion today and I was found guilty, guilty I say by a biased jury of one. I was wrongfully questioned, and thus accused of being a foreigner in God’s country, where fried fare, whole hog bbq, sweet tea, and nanner puddin’ are always on the menu.

While shootin’ the Bojangles’ breeze with an older gentleman in overhauls, probably rollin’ in cash, like the hogs he owns in mud, he quipped, “where you from, son”? “You ain’t got much’uvah suthin’ accent”. I thought, “Lawd have mercy!” With just a few words, like the call of a concrete jungle, my adopted accent betrayed my heritage, and like a wayward foreigner in a far away land, my vernacular visa had just been revoked.

I was offended. My down home proclivities I hold dear seemed somehow tainted. Was I suddenly an imposter? Had I betrayed my upbringin’? Would Sweet’N Low become my preferred sugar substitute? Is kale now my new sausage gravy? After all these years of living amongst suburban folk, had I become citified sophisticated? It was if Junior Samples had waved his magic tire iron and turned my camo pants into skinny jeans and the Cabela’s sweatshirt on my husky sized back had shrunk to that of a J. Crew slim fit dress shirt. It was a low moment.

So, I’m just over hear ponderin’. Ponderin’ on what dues I need to pay or good deeds that need doin’ to earn back my fried chicken and collard green credentials. Maybe I’ll move to some rural NC county, like American Spanish students who immerse themselves in Latin America to learn the language. I dunno, but sumthin’s got to change.

I need more syrup in my drawl, y’all!
The rural South, a place where old Live Oaks flourish, dirt roads seem endless, corn fields are as big as whole oceans, and little pink houses dot the landscape. Diners, where “honey”, “darlin’”, and “dear” are honorary nicknames. A small place where porches are for sittin’ and lemonade is for sippin’. “C’mon over and sit a spell” is a Sunday afternoon tradition and dinner on the grounds is prepared and served as if church royalty had been invited. But I digress.

Though the South has its dark corners and times of the past we loathe, when our behavior was less than who God created us to be, we still like to think our cotton is high, we’re always fixin’ to do somethin’, dinner is supper, and “bless your heart” is not always a term of endearment.

Living a purpose filled life is less about celebrating the flag of victory we plant on a mountaintop, but more about celebrating the people who helped us push the plows as we endeavored together to climb through perilous valleys and hardened clay to finish the race.

-Steve Wade

It’s 3:30am Wednesday morning. I’ve found sleep impossible, so far. I just lowered the lights in my home and divorced myself from MSNBC, CNN and FOX News. My head hurts, but I’m eager for the new day to come. It’s been a tedious and unconventional three months of election drama, partly due to the bending of the democratic process midstream to put forth a candidate incongruent to political campaign decorum, but it was understandable given the state of the incumbent.

I’ve been so steeped in it all, I could write the CliffsNotes for anyone to read who wishes to peer through the veil of conversational context and the relevancy it holds in a truly free and fair election. Both presidential candidates left it all on the field, something truly amazing to watch. I’m wore out, but at peace, and ready to move on. I’m hoping the pastures are greener on the other side. 

The electorate has chosen the forty-seventh president elect of the United States. Some would argue in landslide fashion…the votes are still be counted. The popular vote agrees, in grand fashion, with the electoral college, which some wish to abolish. A mandate of the people granting single party power to govern the executive branch and, potentially, both legislative bodies. The house numbers are still being assessed. America’s demographics, as their political allegiance ebbs and flows, have surprisingly realigned, at least some, behind an unexpected candidate in historic fashion and against many odds. Agency has been re-established by the otherwise under-counted. Anxiety reigned among the electorate until the winning team found reassurance in the outcome. 

It should never be about race, creed, gender, sexual orientation or country of origin, assuming legal citizenship, but it’s been artificially designed to be that way. It’s baked-in to voting expectations and long held beliefs of who belongs to which party. Vote shaming certain demographics and party affiliates to stay in line is proving to be a weakening strategy to maintain the status quo, but only time will bare this out. A message of unity can only succeed if sincere.

Given who the winner is of this historic presidential contest, the other side is left sucking wind and wondering how we survive under this new leadership. The New York Times says the winning vote represents a “perilous choice”, but the Dow being up over twelve-hundred points begs to differ.

Both sides have put forth rhetoric that has no place in our social discourse. “Single cat ladies” was neither edifying nor fair. But, to be coined a dictator, Nazi, fascist and existential threat to democracy is a bridge walked too far. To conflate a current day political leader, and their supporters, to men who raised a movement of murder, ethnic cleansing of millions, and an evil seeded mission to rule the world through any means necessary, is dishonest at best, and at worst, insults the intelligence of those Americans within earshot. Again, context of words matter and the real truth beyond a fifteen second snippet is critical to the story. 

The media yields way more power than they deserve and have shaped our mindsets, much to the demise of those who adhere to its teachings. Chicken Little is a story told in truth and one applicable to not just the sky. 

A page to turn is not enough for the incoming administration. A new book will soon be written, they proclaim, with stories of newly found prosperity, a renewed hope for liberty, and a plot to set a new course to pursue happiness. The vote squeezed out the reality that people who work with their hands are different than those who work behind a desk (figuratively). College educated versus non-college educated, suburban residents versus those who live beyond the city limits and the “isms” are the weapons used to divide our society. It’s a dang shame. 

I’m a moderate thinker and someone who can see both sides of any argument, though some are non-negotiable for me, as I know they are for you. I believe, as in any election, a line in the sand is drawn that, once crossed, voters tap out and ready themselves to find a new, and better, path forward. Everyone has their own line, but I believe, based on the election results, that line was crossed far too many times. I also believe the offer of a better path forward, at least to some, was more attractive than the alternative. 

Today may be dark in the eyes of some who see the world through a different prism. For those who fret, our constitutional republic is strong and resilient to excel. Democracy will prevail. No one person, legislative body, or judge alone can upend that which has propped us up all these years. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s our’s and the greatest governance the world has ever known. We may not agree with opposing policy, but that’s the beauty of America’s try-again-next-time system. Keep fighting for that which you believe.

No matter what the little birdie says, this is not the last election where votes will be cast for your favorite candidate, nor will our world burn following Inauguration Day. No political enemies will be harmed, unjustly placed in jail, or put before a firing squad. The rhetoric of nonsense has to end. Let grace abound. 

Watching all the news pundits overnight, I’m not sure if I should grab my fire suit hoping not to perish in our soon to be new world or a lounge chair to prop up by the lake and bask in the sun of, what some say, are better days to come. We’ll see. I’ll keep both close at hand, just in case pending which side is right. 

There are few feelings which well up in a parent’s heart that rival the anticipation of seeing our child’s likeness as they promenade from behind the veil of airport security.

We watch and wait, “welcome home” signs and flowers in hand. Onlookers must think we’re rock star groupies waiting for a glimpse of our favorite superstar. Well, in a sense, we sorta are. Mom’s checking “Flight Aware” every minute on the minute. If you employ “Find My Friends” and “Life360” as if conducting kiddo search and rescue missions, watching your kids fly across the country is one more valuable tool needed in your covert operational arsenal.

There she is! My iPhone video speed seems too slow for a moment as if a dream is unfolding, but in reality, the time elapse seems to be moving too fast. Smiles, frozen in the moment, are the appetizers we share. As the main course of our sweet reunion, hugs and kisses, sprinkled with salty tears, heighten the flavor of our familiar fellowship. And for dessert? The simplicity of our mid’s voice, which falls on a parent’s loving ears, reminding us of by-gone days when conversations were not tethered by cables and phones. We could play their USNA stories, even of the most mundane things, on repeat in our minds and they would never grow stale.

Our ‘19, now a LTJG, and our ‘22 Ensign have upheld a Christmas homecoming tradition in repose of the Severn. Sharp dressed, but no more ribbons and bows. They’re both squared away in the fleet now, gold buttons and all. Oh, happy day! I pray yours at home are safe and, at this moment, nestled in their homes, sleeping well past their normal muster time. It is a wonderful life.

Whether by air or asphalt vein, on the occasion when their shined oxfords cross the threshold of our home harbor, we celebrate their presence and rejoice in their company. Like nesting dolls, each visit reveals a new likeness, larger, wiser, and stronger than the last. We feed them well, love them well, and as we once did so many years ago, we watch as they nap on the couch. We pray for their future and immerse ourselves in the quiet moment with grateful hearts.

As firstie parents, your tenured hourglass is bottom heavy. Though the scales of time once tipped in your favor, the shopkeeper of swag is soon to call your Mid Store cards due. Because your fledgling Navy and Marine Corps officers are soon to enter the fleet and field, as our oldest sailor has, your annual lunch party reservation will be minus one. Though our daughters will be missed, I am thankful for their service as well as her brothers and sisters who ready the fight in the theater this holiday season.

The moment of anticipation is one we covet, sometimes for months, perhaps someday, for a year or more. Our hearts flutter as we envision that first embrace. Our eyes twinkle as we reflect on days long in the rearview mirror when our homes were full of noise, our pantries stocked with snacks, all nighters seemed all too frequent, shoes of friends piled high by the front door, and games, recitals, and plays filled our social calendars all because our kids were worth our time and for that, their Naval Academy experience is the outpouring of our eighteen-year investment.

It is a beautiful thing you’ve done as USNA parents. The kids you’ve raised are exceptional, well rounded, committed to ideals larger than themselves, and are “imbued with duty, honor, and loyalty”. Be proud! You’ve done good, Mom and Dad. Ever since that very first moment of anticipation upon introducing our newborn dumplings to family and friends, we have much to be thankful for in this season of homecoming reunions.

My southern identity was put before the court of public opinion today and I was found guilty, guilty I say by a biased jury of one. I was wrongfully questioned, and thus accused of being a foreigner in God’s country, where fried fare, whole hog bbq, sweet tea, and nanner puddin’ are always on the menu. 

While shootin’ the Bojangles’ breeze with an older gentleman in overhauls, probably rollin’ in cash, like the hogs he owns in mud, he quipped, “where you from, son”? “You ain’t got much’uvah suthin’ accent”. I thought, “Lawd have mercy!” With just a few words, like the call of a concrete jungle, my adopted accent betrayed my heritage, and like a wayward foreigner in a far away land, my vernacular visa had just been revoked.

I was offended. My down home proclivities I hold dear seemed somehow tainted. Was I suddenly an imposter? Had I betrayed my upbringin’? Would Sweet’N Low become my preferred sugar substitute? Is kale now my new sausage gravy? After all these years of living amongst suburban folk, had I become citified sophisticated? It was if Junior Samples had waved his magic tire iron and turned my camo pants into skinny jeans and the Cabela’s sweatshirt on my husky sized back had shrunk to that of a J. Crew slim fit dress shirt. It was a low moment.

After all these years of living amongst suburban folk, had I become citified sophisticated?

So, I’m just over hear ponderin’. Ponderin’ on what dues I need to pay or good deeds that need doin’ to earn back my fried chicken and collard green credentials. Maybe I’ll move to some rural NC county, like American Spanish students who immerse themselves in Latin America to learn the language. I dunno, but sumthin’s got to change. 

I need more syrup in my drawl, y’all!
The rural South, a place where old Live Oaks flourish, dirt roads seem endless, corn fields are as big as whole oceans, and little pink houses dot the landscape. Diners, where “honey”, “darlin’”, and “dear” are honorary nicknames. A small place where porches are for sittin’ and lemonade is for sippin’. “C’mon over and sit a spell” is a Sunday afternoon tradition and dinner on the grounds is prepared and served as if church royalty had been invited. But I digress.

Though the South has its dark corners and times of the past we loathe, when our behavior was less than who God created us to be, we still like to think our cotton is high, we’re always fixin’ to do somethin’, dinner is supper, and “bless your heart” is not always a term of endearment.

Rick Bragg once wrote, “If you cannot eat what you want in the South, life is not worth living here.”

Any culinary fare with the forename, “fried”, is considered atop the southern food pyramid. Our bloodlines course with Dixie Crystal, Duke’s mayonnaise, and Old Bay. Sweet tea is our beverage of choice, pork BBQ is the other white meat, and good chicken salad is worth the hunt.

I like my chefs to be full-bodied and sturdy. Ones who create broad flavors with brawny undertones of sausage, bacon, and catfish.

– Steve Wade

Those who trod across the kitchen as if dragging a pig cooker, not flit, like the hostess of the evening, are those I choose to dine with. The best southern chefs should look as if they enjoy their fare as much as bubba does sitting over in the corner booth eating it.

To me, a skinny chef is suspicious. Someone not to be trusted. Unlike a robust robe of pork rib royalty, which hangs best on a fattened whole hog, the cloak of uncertainty I see through the kitchen saloon doors draped over the rawboned gentleman preparing my biscuits and gravy, makes me wonder if he truly believes in the goodness that simmers before him.

Not to baste the Thanksgiving turducken with a broad brine of pejorative rhetoric about skinny people, in particular skinny chefs, but my proclivities beg me to at least ask. I am certain if those who stir the culinary delights which typically befall my plastic plate, they too would carry a little extra ballast. But hey! We all need a little grounding so our ships don’t list.

I’ve met one or two bakers, chicken breaders, and holy hog handlers who live the “one for you and two for me” lifestyle while frying hushpuppies. Though somehow they maintain their girlish figure, trust me, it’s genetic, cause ain’t no southern comfort food chef worth their weight in buttermilk, bacon grease, cornmeal, and pecan pie if they buy skinny jeans from J.Crew and have accrued any reward points from Happy and Hale.

So, in this world of kale salads, avocado smoothies, and beyond beef, whatever that is, pull up a chair at the next checkerboard table cloth you can find and sit a spell. If the waitress comes over and calls you “honey”, “darlin’” or “dear”, you’ve found the honey pot of good southern cookin’.

Bon appétit, y’all!

Ever seen an opossum run at night? It’s about as entertaining as being an eyewitness to a likkered up moonshiner, buck dancing on the back of a moving ‘bacca trailer. They certainly wouldn’t win the Arthur Murray salsa competition over at the VFW spring fling. However, they might eat the leftover nachos if placed in a garbage bag on the service porch. Being almost blind and half deaf, they don’t navigate well under the cover of darkness or, well, anytime.

They resemble a matted Wobble Wag Giggle Ball with sharp teeth and a personality only a hyena can appreciate. I truly believe, if pitted against “Hercules”, the Mastiff in the movie, ”The Sand Lot”, the opossum would win the fight. Heaven forbid you corner one in a crawl space. That sucker will be in no mood to negotiate a peace treaty. Either he dies, or you do. If you emerge victorious, be sure to reassess your blessings ‘cause you just cashed one in.

Some people think opossums are cute, furry, and have a toothy smile only a mother could love. Their skinny, hairless tails would garner them no favors in the Junior League beauty contest but it’s quite handy for hanging from tree limbs, an appendage most five-year-olds would love to have. As a marsupial, its precious how they harbor their little dumplins’ in a pouch, much like a toddler would guard a bag full of Toy Story dolls.

In reality, opossums are mean as the devil himself. They’ve been known to eat cats, which I suppose is not a bad thing. They also eat ticks. When threatened, they have a personality which falls somewhere between a feral hog on meth and a pre-schooler who’s been told he must eat the fruit cup side instead of fries. Just dreadful. If you’ve ever been witness to an opossum feigning death, it’s a hoot to watch but a memory you’ll soon want to forget. My mama always said, “nuthin’ good ever happens after midnight”. Being a nocturnal opportunist, after midnight is when these creatures excel. Trash cans beware and, for Heaven’s sakes, lock your doggie door lest you must call 911 to eradicate an unwanted intruder.

All in all, I guess we can coexist, one with the other. Like two competing board spinners advertising furniture stores on the brink of bankruptcy, I’ll stay on my street corner and he, on his.  I’ll be more mindful not to leave table scraps on the service porch. I’ve grown weary of retrieving morsels of spoiled chicken, decaying vegetables, and other unmentionable toiletry products from my bushes. And to you, ol’ possum, please do not squat in my crawlspace anymore as there is no vacancy for vermin such as yourself. Carry on my wayward scavenger of the night and stop loafing on the highway. As ugly as you are on the outside, your innards are equally as displeasing.

My father-in-law, who passed away in 2017, would’ve been 81 years old today. As I marinate on his life, I retreated to the archives of my journal and found this entry regarding a few thoughts surrounding the day we laid to rest, Tom Wilson, one of the greatest men I ever knew.

To most, this photo may seem like a benign climb along a path shrouded by Rhododendrons and White Pines. To dreamers, a simple question may arise. Where does the path lead? For goal setters, where does it end? For the pragmatic minded, why is it here and what’s its purpose? And, for the imaginative amongst us, we create characters in our minds of mythical creatures formed from the silhouettes of tree limbs and the sounds of critters moving about.

This path actually represents a journey of a thousand tales.

A journey of many families who have walked this old fire road for decades. The effort put forth, never so in vane. The reward realized, never disappointing. The sense of peace, never hard to find. It’s a path which leads to inspiring mountain vistas where silence is sought and rest is assured.

A thousand tales told by dozens of families fills a guest book that reads like a Hemingway novel. The adventure, romance, wildness, and spiritual connection to God’s creation is a common theme that runs through this land at Cherry Lane Farm in Sparta, NC. However, on this day, this climb was of a more somber tone.

Today, we buried the ashes of Tom Wilson, husband of Alice Wilson. His ashes were placed in a small, nondescript White Oak box made by a local mountain carpenter, and nestled carefully and peacefully into a small grave, dug by human hands, hands of those who loved and cherished Tom. As Genesis testifies, we were formed from the dust of the ground and true to scripture, Tom returned to the ground as dust today. But, we rejoice as his body has now been made whole in Heaven.

As I reflect on those faithful friends and loving family climbing that hill today to Tom’s internment, I wonder if I’ve lived a life worthy of that climb? Will I be loved such that those who dream will rejoice in the journey to where my life’s path had lead? Will the goal setters be encouraged and pleased with where my path had ended? Will the pragmatic minded understand what my purpose was and why it was so important? And, will the imaginative see the creativity of life in me they so hoped for?

Only time will bear out who will make a similar climb on my behalf. However, the path I will walk will not be one paved with conviction of who I want people to think I am, but by who God has created me to be. Upon that path, I will stake my life and upon that hill, I will rejoice with Tom in Heaven one day.

As a middle school kid, I burned through several college ruled, spiral bound notebooks writing these dreadful sentences. It was my own fault, I suppose. My teachers insisted scribble was unacceptable which made this monotonous task of mid-evil torture even more effective as a means to cease and desist my wayward classroom behavior.

Even worse, was the public shame that oozed from my hand as I would write these same six prophetic words on the chalkboard while my “friends” snickered behind me. Because the school principles and P.E. coaches of my day carried big wooden paddles and were well trained in guerrilla warfare, this little exercise usually was the medicine that cured my mischievous ways.

I raise my #2 pencil to all my educator friends and ol’ ball coaches who serve in the land of behavioral misfits.

It’s a crying shame public humiliation and corporal punishment are no longer accepted by the Helicopter Moms and Dads of America as a means of reinforcing proper manners and respect for those in authority. I raise my #2 pencil to all my educator friends and ol’ ball coaches who serve in the land of behavioral misfits. Although pens and paddles may not be the swords of justice they once were, perhaps they should be.

Or, as an alternative, those of us who gave birth to these precious dumplings who lurk through the hallways of our institutions of learning, we could begin holding our own more accountable when they misstep, allow them to feel the consequences when they misjudge, encourage them to take responsibility for their behavior when they’re misdirected, and stop handing out trophies for doing little at all. I’m afraid if we don’t, our altricious offspring will live on the perpetual chalkboard of life writing the words, “I will not…” after every poor decision they make because they knew no better.

Skylight Inn BBQ is one of my go-to’s for delectable down east wood smoked pork. A place where Carhartt and plaid meet the dress code of the day. Men, with their names embroidered on blue collar shirts and ladies dripping with southern charm, all converge on this little place along the vein of country life most days between high noon and sunset.

Fords, Chevys and Ram trucks, with a Toyota or two scattered about, are the modern day covered wagons which have found a resting place amidst an old gravel lot riddled with potholes and tire tracks. It’s a place of comfort for every soul who crosses the threshold of this hidden gem.

Over the years, Skylight Inn BBQ has graced the pages of Our State Magazine, Southern Living, and Garden & Gun. There’s a reason for their notoriety…they simply serve some of the most mouth watering whole hog you’ll find anywhere east of Lexington. Low and Slow Smokehouse in Johnston Co., B’s in Greenville, and Wilber’s in Goldsboro, rank in my top four. Well, Sam Jones, too, but he’s an automatic shoe-in.

Since 1947, the Jones family has remained true to their holy hand raisin’ craft and for that, they’ve enriched the bellies of many North Carolinians, and some foreigners, too! Founder, Pete Jones, once said, “A place like this don’t need any sign”. I suppose word of mouth and wood smoke wafting across Pitt Co. is all the persuasion needed to attract us flies to the honey.

Me? I recently had the medium pig tray with a slice of corn bread and baked beans. I was feeling a bit weak in the knees so I sprung for some tater salad and ‘nanner puddin’, too. The other white meat was so tender with a sweet sauce just slightly doused on top like a blanket of love. It was as if I was consuming pork flavored cotton candy. I’ll save the details for my food blog one day, but rest assured, it’s worth the hour and fifteen minute hunt from Raleigh. My only regret? I didn’t order the large.