I traveled home this weekend for a wedding—back to my first home. The muggy, slow, deeply Southern one. Walking into my mama’s house has always been a cathartic experience. The same smell, the same comfy couch, the same bedroom from my childhood.
After living on the West Coast for more than a year now, traveling home often offers even more of a stark contrast between the two worlds. There just is something definite and specific about Southern style. And no matter how long I spend away from it, I still gobble up Southern Living each month (which my mom, of course, bought me a subscription to for my birthday).
In a few words, Southern style is….
There has always been a nostalgic meaning to the artwork on our walls. This is a painting of the New Orleans, purchased by my grandmother. It’s probably worth pennies but I think to my parents, it’s priceless.
My grandfather was a bottler in my hometown’s Coca-Cola factory. As you can imagine, we were never allowed to bring any Pepsi products into the house. It was the law. Coca-Cola memorabilia holds a special place in our den.
Growing up, there was always that one room that was mainly just for looks and really not for actual living. Our living room was (and is) a “do not touch” room and I think because of that, it has always held a certain graceful mystery to me. My mama’s piano is in this room and often times, the only noise that would come out of it would be the tinkling music as she practiced for Sunday’s offertory hymn.
No matter how long I’m away, home always remains home. I may love an Eames chair but Southern style (deep Southern style) will always be near and dear to my heart.