I wrote a short little something about small town living and Pop and the south and whatnot and they published it in the local Shelby County Reporter last week. Anywho I went out of town on Thursday with the intention to just have dinner with Mom and Winn and the Cook’s in Atlanta, and I wound up on my way to Pickwick Lake for a day on a house boat named “Outta Here” and then down to Oxford, MS the next day for a day of red and blue tailgating with the Hollis’.
Tail-gating was great fun, reminded me too much of my days at SMU doing the whole routine. Same phenomenon almost exactly, just different state, different intensity. I learned that Gerald Turner, the SMU president, actually came from Ole Miss. I then put together the Grove at Ole Miss where we were and the Boulevard at SMU where we tailgate there and I see that sadly, SMU appears to be a spin-off. For whatever that comments worth, and I don’t think its much, it made for great small talk conversation as I went on to be introduced to the entire thirty odd side of Bowen’s family as Bowen’s Mother’s Spiritual Advisor, Cole, who happens to know James too. Needless to say everyone was fantastic and I had such a great time and met so many great people and can’t thank the Hollis’ enough. Thank you.
As great as all that was it was not the highlight of my Labor Day weekend. The highlight came when I talked to Grandma on the phone Sunday and she told me that they had read my article out loud to Pop’s Sunday school class. She was so excited to tell me I could hear it in her voice. She kept on and on about all the people who had said something to her about it and I realized even more so how great being from a small town is. I remembered I wrote it for Grandma, but to hear they read it out loud to Pop’s Sunday school class I get the chills. It’s like he came back from beyond the grave to remind all of them one more time, “Character Does Count.”
As much fun as my Mississippi adventure was, hearing about what went on back here at home topped it all.
Dear Heavenly Father-(kind of means something different for me now, you see?)- thank you thank you for my many blessings.
Here’s the thing they published in the local paper. It’s funny because I’ve been sorting through newspaper clips from the Shelby Country Reporter that go back to the 1950’s all the way through the boys and their 4-H trophies to high school football to the family of the year stuff to going to Yale to Skillet Bird’s articles about Mary and Frank, and now I too have entered that club. The Shelby County Reporter Grandma’s Clipping Club, and I am honored to have done so.
Dear Editor,
Sometime, somewhere back, I heard it said, “May God bless you enough to live in a small town.” Recently, the truth of that statement has revealed itself to me, and I have you, Shelby County, to thank.
I’m not from around here. This isn’t where I grew up, but this summer I’ve begun to see that this is where I came from.
Both sets of my grandparents lived in Columbiana, and my parents, Dawn and Allan, were high school sweethearts from SCHS. Mom was a methodist, Dad was a baptist, and they all loved God just the same.
As for me, I grew up in California, and as you might expect, it’s a completely different world over there.
I get a good number of funny looks when people spot my car tags. The younger ones think I’m headed in the wrong direction coming back South instead of going back West, and it’s those funny looks that compel me to write you.
After I graduated college last summer I rambled all over the country for 24,000 miles trying to find what fit, trying to find what felt like home.
After all that I can honestly tell you, you aren’t going to find a better front porch anywhere than right here in Shelby County. Most people don’t even have porches in California.
When my grandfather, Frank “Pop” Suttle, passed away on my birthday this summer I had the opportunity to move in with Grandma on the farm for a while.
We sure do miss Pop, but living in his community, the community of my roots, makes me feel like he’s still around.
Down here I meet folks around town who tell me how they used to help Pop bail hay, or how he taught them Physics at Montevallo back in the day, or how I don’t know them but they know me because their son or daughter was friends with my mom and dad in grade school.
“I knew your Daddy since he was this big!” they tell me.
These are the things that make small town living blessed. Maybe it’s a small town thing, maybe it’s a southern thing, but down here people still know what it means to be a good neighbor.
Friends take the time to come by just to visit and bring you homegrown squash, and Piggly Wiggly still rules the roost because being a loyal customer means something.
You can’t fake calling a small town your home if it isn’t; these things take generations. You can’t buy roots, you grow them, so don’t think the grass is always greener someplace like California.
In the immortal words of Pop, “Character does count,” and Shelby County, you’ve got it, so thanks for helping a city slicker appreciate the finest things in life: family, community, sweet tea and fried okra.
Now how about you go pick something from your garden and visit with a neighbor? In the meantime, I’ll see you at the Pig.
Cole Suttle
Columbiana
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