I’m heading to the lake in North Carolina this weekend to hang out with college friends. Can’t wait!
(Source: scullandoars, via browndresswithwhitedots)
Just a Pinch of South
For those of us who grew up in the South but have moved elsewhere, we love our roots and all they have provided. There's a lot that I've come to appreciate about the South. But let's be honest, most of us don't want to go back to "full Southern." We're happy with just a pinch here and there to add flavor to the life we live now. If you are not a Southerner, perhaps you'll come to better appreciate the little gifts the American South has given and continues to give our culture. This blog is written by Elizabeth Bloodworth. Photos are not mine unless specified. Email me at justapinchofsouth @ gmail dot com. I tweet at @apinchofsouth and my other tumblr is called "everythingthatdoesntfitelsewhere" which is just what it sounds like.
May15
May13
Jason Harrod is a musician friend of mine who lives here in New York City. He grew up in Durham, North Carolina and he writes and sings folk/acoustic music.
This is a Woody Guthrie cover with a whole new melody.
Here is his bandcamp page if you like what you hear.
May12
Remembering my mom today.
She was pretty great. I might be biased and everything, but lots of people who knew her tell me they think so, too.
May11
35 Easy Ways To Identify A Southern Woman→
Looks like @Buzzfeed has been reading Just A Pinch of South. Thanks y’all!
May10
On May 8th, 1886, the first Coca-Cola fountain drink was sold at Jacob’s Pharmacy in Atlanta, Georgia. (from the Atlanta History Center)
My first thought on reading about this was to wonder what kind of ice it was served with. I hope it was crushed ice. I really do.
In New York it is in style to serve cocktails and liquors with big ice cubes. That’s wonderful because it doesn’t water down your bourbon.
But it’s a totally different thing with Coke, in my opinion. Crush the ice. It should almost be soft it is so finely crushed. Practically snow for there is intense pleasure in chewing Coca-Cola flavored crushed ice.
For the record anyone from Atlanta can detect the presence of an “off-mix” of a fountain Coke within half a sip. It is not acceptable, and we might be bold enough to tell the restaurant’s proprietor of this sensory offense. But keep in mind, we’ve had a head start. We’ve been drinking fountain Cokes since 1886.
(Source: nzafro, via spencerlewis)
May9
Next weekend I’m getting together with college friends for our annual weekend at Lake Badin in North Carolina. I just found out today that one of my dearest friends, who lives in Apex, NC might not come because of her “chicken eggs/baby chick situation” which makes me laugh. But it would bum me out if she can’t make it on account of poultry.
It makes me laugh because she and her husband are from Baltimore and did NOT grow up with livestock. This is a total hipster acquisition. I didn’t, either, but I did “chicken sit” for some neighbors down the street when they would go out of town. So I can judge, right?
Maybe not, but that’s where we are these days. We’re eating turnips and get all giddy over ramps and insist on organic quinoa. If you told my hot dog and twinkie eating eight year old self about this, she would scoff and then say something like, “gag me with a spoon.” (That was mostly because it was the 80’s)
Apex, NC, for the record used to be the reddest of redneck towns. They been raisin’ yard birds in Apex for many a year. But now it’s the ex-burbs of the Research Triangle Park. In other words, chock full of first generation chicken raising Yankees who might or might not be in over their heads.
Maybe she’ll bring her chickens to the lake on a leash or something. Or does anyone know the name of a good chick-sitter? He/she will need references.
(Source: swanss, via lifeofhunt)
May4
Can you be fiercely loyal to where you were raised, and also love this?
Is that a contradiction?
I don’t think it is. Not for me, anyway.
(Source: pursuable, via kardasians)
May3
I’m gonna be real honest, y’all. It’s been a rough work day. Lots of time spent on the phone with multiple banks and insurance companies. There was a even a webinar.
I think I’ve earned some of the above, and it ain’t even 3 o’clock yet.
(Source: thenorsephoto, via lifeofhunt)
Apr27
Apr26
If you gaze at this picture and veg out while listening to R.E.M.’s album Life’s Rich Pageant (go now and turn it on), you’ll pretty much feel exactly like I did every afternoon of 8th grade.
(Oh, and don’t try and figure out what Michael Stipe is singing about that will only distract you, but instead, give the lyrics your own personal meaning, trust me on this.)
(via chalksmoke)
RIP George Jones. He was country, and pretty bad assy.
This is a medley of duets with Tammy Wynette live.
Apr25
Meet Roscoe + Helen \\ Story Portraits→
Read about Roscoe and Helen on my friend Lydia’s blog. Roscoe met Helen when they were living at the Barium Springs Orphanage in North Carolina in the 1930’s. They’ve been married for 63 years.
Oh to be a kid again, and get to do this.
My only real run-in with “the Law” was for standing up in the back of a pickup truck driving down Highway 41 when I was 14 years old.
But Creedence Clearwater Revival was playing. Who could blame me?
(Source: jameschororos, via tumbledownsouth)
For no particular reason, I’d like to give it up for North Carolina today.
I’d be happy to be eating some Eastern NC barbecue right now if I could.
I’m not a North Carolinian, technically, but my people go way back in The Old North State.
To be, rather than to seem.
(Source: magnoliapyramids, via debutantesanddarlings)
Apr24
Novelist Eudora Welty’s Cover Letter for the New Yorker
Gentlemen,
I suppose you’d be more interested in even a sleight-o’-hand trick than you’d be in an application for a position with your magazine, but as usual you can’t have the thing you want most.
I am 23 years old, six weeks on the loose in N.Y. However, I was a New Yorker for a whole year in 1930-31 while attending advertising classes in Columbia’s School of Business. Actually I am a southerner, from Mississippi, the nation’s most backward state. Ramifications include Walter H. Page, who, unluckily for me, is no longer connected with Doubleday-Page, which is no longer Doubleday-Page, even. I have a B.A. (’29) from the University of Wisconsin, where I majored in English without a care in the world. For the last eighteen months I was languishing in my own office in a radio station in Jackson, Miss., writing continuities, dramas, mule feed advertisements, Santa Claus talks, and life insurance playlets; now I have given that up.
As to what I might do for you — I have seen an untoward amount of picture galleries and 15 cent movies lately, and could review them with my old prosperous detachment, I think; in fact, I recently coined a general word for Matisse’s pictures after seeing his latest at the Marie Harriman: concubineapple. That shows you how my mind works–quick, and away from the point. I read simple voraciously, and can drum up an opinion afterwards.
Since I have bought an India print, and a large number of phonograph records from a Mr. Nussbaum who picks them up, and a Cezanne Bathers one inch long (that shows you I read e.e. cummings, I hope), I am anxious to have an apartment, not to mention a small portable phonograph. How I would like to work for you! A little paragraph each morning–a little paragraph each night, if you can’t hire me from daylight to dark, although I would work like a slave. I can also draw like Mr. Thurber, in case he goes off the deep end. I have studied flower painting.
There is no telling where I may apply, if you turn me down; I realize this will not phase you, but consider my other alternative: the U. o N.C. offers for $12.00 to let me dance in Vachel Lindsay’s “Congo.” I congo on. I rest my case, repeating that I am a hard worker.
Truly yours,
Eudora Welty
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