My Life in Polaroids.

I love being from the south. Which is funny because I’m not really from the south at all. I’m not really “from” any where.

Nine years ago I was “from” Las Vegas. Four years before that, Pensacola (the first time). Prior to P’cola, I was a seventeen-year Texan. When I moved to Texas in 1977, I SWORE I would never utter the phrase “ya’ll.” No respectable Mile-Higher would ever say anything other than “you guys.” And before I became an Orange-Crush-Loving Bronco fan, I lived in an igloo in Alaska with a polar bear for a pet. At least that’s what my 4th-grade classmates thought at Aurora Elementary when I told them I had moved to Denver from Anchorage.

But even with all my “worldly” travels, I have spent the better part of my life in the south. Even Las Vegas qualifies (it’s just a smidge north of 36 degrees latitude). And I’ve absorbed a bit of each southern city I’ve had the privilege of calling home.

From Texas I learned strength and confidence, how to make tamales and love grits, and proper hat and boot etiquette. In Florida, I learned true southern hospitality, how to surf, and what a REAL beach should look like. And Vegas taught me I could be rough and dusty on the edges one day and glam it up like a rock star the next and not lose myself in the process.  I’ve fully embraced the southern culture.

So even though I’m not really from the south, I call myself a southerner. The best part? My truly southern (born, raised, and never left) friends accept me as their own. It’s the southern way.

When I was a little girl, I said I was going to marry a man just like my Daddy. A man who took care of his family, providing for us and protecting us. And a man with strong hands.

My dad’s hands were soft and rough all at once. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve slipped a tiny hand into a hand like that. One that made you feel safe and warm at the same time. His hands were soft on the top but his palms were rough; worn and calloused from hard work and hunting – man stuff.

When I met David, the first thing I noticed was his hands. (Okay, well, maybe not the FIRST thing. That was definitely the way he looked in his jeans and boots!) His hands were like my dad’s. I could tell a lot about him just looking at his hands: he played sports, knew how to use a hunt, liked yard work, and could fix just about anything. Just like my dad.

Twenty-one years later I still like to slip my hand into that rough, warm palm and feel the gentle but firm squeeze.

I’ve learned what makes hands like that. I call it “The MacGyver Gene.” That’s the gene that makes men, well, men. There isn’t a problem MacGyver can’t solve. A broken anything he can’t fix. But he’s also compassionate. He fights for the underdog, those in trouble. which is what softens the edges.

Marry a man like my Daddy. Mission accomplished.