Mama Makes Up Her Mind and Other Dangers of Southern Living

I'm tired of being set upon by crazed Christians one minute and unbridled libertines the next. Girls, I'm going camping.

It was no mean trick doing the wiring with those mittens on. But I managed it and crawled out, batting spiders into the shadows. I could hear a thud as they hit the floor joists, then a scuttling sound, then, worst of all, the silence of spiders.

When Mama starts to move across a room, people pay attention. You can never be sure she's not going to grab you by the top of the head to steady herself. And she's pretty free with that walking stick, too.

We settled Mama into the wheelchair and loaded her down with both our pocketbooks and a vase of flowers I had picked to present to our host in hopes of softening the effects of any opinions Mama might vent during the evening.

Her blood-curdling snoring, with its gargling and squawking and its terrifying pauses is like the sound the devil might make if he were alternately relishing and strangling on a pound of human flesh.

When I got started again, I drove slower and felt smaller. I think it does us all good to get looked at like that now and then by a wild animal.

I have the sick fantasy that whatever I see at the movies is going to happen to me at home. My bladder capacity increased tenfold after I saw "The Shining" because I was sure that if I went into the bathroom late at night, there would be a dead woman in the bathtub.