Glendale Day 1: Why I Love Southern Women...

Saturday, we flew out to begin our journey along with the rest of the Auburn Family towards what we hope to be a BCS National Title. Our flight was full of Auburn folk so much so that we actually cheered during the flight. You know, just the usual stuff like "Bodda Getta" and "Waaaaarrrrrr Eagle!".

The Phoenix airport was a sea of orange and blue with only a few green ducks in the mix. We stood in line for 15 minutes to get on the rental car shuttle. To stand in line again for the rental car. To then stand in line in the garage to get into said rental car. All together, it took us about an hour to go from gate to car. Not bad considering there were 50 bazillion people there.

Yes, I counted.

Understandably, the airport staff stuffed us into the rental car shuttle bus like sardines.

(Although I feel I should tell you that I've never actually seen sardines stuffed into anything so I'm just using that as a comparison because I can't think of anything funnier and/or less gross. Like say a stuffed duck.)

Just behind us there were two couples. Why they struck up a conversation I can't remember. One of the women probably commented on the other woman's sweater or something. Anyway, I started eavesdropping around this point in the conversation:

STOP: If you don't read this like you are auditioning for Steele Magnolias, you'll miss the full effect. Go ahead and find your inner Clairee.

Now proceed.

Lady in Orange Sweater: Oh really! We're from Alabama too! Where are you from?

Land in Navy Sweater: Montgomery! You?

Orange Sweater: Clanton!

Navy Sweater: Oh! I have a dear friend who lives in Clanton. Lisa Soandso. Do you know her?

Orange: Well now, that name sounds familiar. Does she have kids at St. James?

(At this point, I lean over to Chris and say, I love Southern women. Why wouldn't she know your friend? I'm sure she knows everyone in that town.)

Now I have no idea how many people actually live in Clanton. The only thing I really know about Clanton is that I rather enjoy a stop at Peach Park.

Yep. They grow peaches in Clanton, AL. And right along I-65 at the second Clanton exit is Peach Park. When I was younger it was kind of a small farmer's market with a little ice cream shop. The best peach ice cream in all of Alabama. Now it's a rather large tourist stop complete with some sort of actual park where you can grab a rocking chair on the back porch and watch as people wander around the pine trees checking out statues and birdbaths local vendors have set up for sale.

The only thing that really hasn't changed are the pictures of the Peach Queens on the walls inside the farmer's market.

Oh yeah. There's a queen.

Assuming her duties include important Peach Park functions like riding in a car during the Christmas parade and cutting ribbons when they add another addition to the Park. Doesn't really matter what the duties are though because it's the South. So there must be a queen. Otherwise all those lessons your Southern mama taught you about catching more bees with honey and you should never pull out a mirror in public regardless of how bare your lips are would be pointless.

Although really being a Queen is less a title and more a state of mind for Southern women. We learn at an early age that you wear full makeup whenever you leave the house even if you're just going up the road to the Piggly Wiggly (yes, they still exist), you are off the hook for gossiping as long as you end the salacious information with a "bless her heart" and ambitious women wanting to marry must learn to love football or risk marrying some scallywag Yankee who likes hockey instead. Or even worse, the NFL.

But that's not really the point of the story. I just wanted to share.

Navy: No, her kids are grown but she does teach at Local Middle School.

Orange: Oh yeah! I teach at Local Elementary School. What does she teach?

Navy: Sixth grade history I think. You know, I have another friend who's goddaughter goes to Local Elementary School. She's a doll! Sally May?

Orange: Hum...I don't know many of the younger kids. I know lots of the boys. My son is nine. He has red hair. I wonder if Sally May has an older brother named Bobby Joe?

Navy: No, but she has a younger sister named Gracie Jo!

(At this point, I am trying my best not to laugh. Because I realize these women will go through their entire mental rolodex of friends, acquaintances and possibly some enemies until they find someone they both know. )

(And then it happens.)

Orange: Oh! I go to The Best Baptist Church! Our pianist is June Somebody.

Navy: Maiden name June Someone, Rich and Beth Someone's daughter?

Orange: Yes! Rich and Beth are fine people!

Navy: Aren't they though! My momma went to school with Beth and I met June at one of their high school reunions when I was ten. It was a lovely picnic and June was wearing a yellow sundress with daisies on it. Oh do tell her I said hello!

And then, unfortunately, we arrived at the rental car terminal. I would have much rather sat and listened to them go on and on all night long. Literally, I could feel my southern accent creeping up on me ready to pounce at any moment.

The whole thing just made me smile from ear to ear. Thinking about my mother and the stories she tells about folks she meets on planes or women she runs into at church that I grew up with. Priceless stuff.

It's some sort of innate Southern woman desire to be connected, no matter how obscurely, to other Southern women. Whether you will know her for ten years or for the ten minutes it takes to get to the rental car terminal. Because deep down, Southern women are all queens of something and they want to make sure every other woman knows it.

Bless her heart.