“I do not need a statue or a flag to know that I am Southern. I can taste it in the food, feel it in my heart, and hear it in the language of my kin.”
Is it me or is Rick Bragg above cancel culture? As a “Yankee” who finds herself currently living in the deep South, picking up Bragg’s latest was a no brainer. (I’m still whoopin’ about All Over But the Shoutin’, 24 years after the fact.) The prize-winning journalist resonates with me for several reasons—first, you’ve gotta admire a man who comes from Possom Trot only to arrive at the Pulitzer; second, he has a strong penchant for putting a human face on a story; and third, he shares with a raw honesty that ultimately makes him a very endearing writer. Please say those reasons seem as stellar to you as they do to me. If so, grab yourself a moon pie, pull up a seat, and crack the spine on Where I Come From: Stories From the Deep South.
Maybe it’s time to let Bragg do the honors—here’s how he described his newest ode: “The stories in this collection are of the South’s gentler, easier nature. It is a litany of great talkers, blue-green waters, deep casseroles, kitchen-sink permanents, lying fishermen, haunted mansions, and dogs that never die, things that make this place more than a dotted line on a map or a long-ago failed rebellion, even if only in some cold-weather dream.” What a tease, that man. He makes Southern living look good, or does he? You’ll have to read to find out, but one thing’s for sure: you’ll laugh along the way!
p.s. This book is worth buying if only to have “My Affair with Tupperware” handy. Or if you’ve had a run-in with fire ants, you’ll definitely want to read “The Grumpy Gardener.” Tee-hee.