Southern Belle Sayings And Quotes

Some might say we lose ourselves in a good book. In truth, we find ourselves.

If you buy an SUV, you're buying your safety at the expense of someone else's." ... If you're driving a Hyundai, which basically runs on air and tofu, and you get in an accident with an SUV, are you going to say, "Well, at least I have the courage of my convictions?" Hell, no. You're going to say: "Soon's I get outta this hospital bed and find my legs, I'm gonna get me a Suburban. Loaded.

Be particular. That is, without a doubt, the Best Advice Ever Given in the History of the Entire World. Consider, if you will, the profound effect that following that advice would have on, say, your diet, your love life, your financial situation, your decision on whether to have that next drink. I mean, what do those two words not cover?

Lizette felt that since Belle Fleur was full of Black folks who looked white, numbers suggested that many whites could be Black. It was all a fine line in the South, she’d say. Given that those sinning, raping plantation owners had both white babies and Black babies, everyone was six degrees from being one or the other. Which was what scared southern white people the most.

You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golden feet? I reply, the ocean knows this. You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for? I tell you it is waiting for time, like you. You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms? Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know. You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, and I reply by describing how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies. You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers, which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides? Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on the crystal architecture of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now? You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean spines? The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks? The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out in the deep places like a thread in the water? I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its jewel boxes is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure, and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the petal hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl. I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes on the timid globe of an orange. I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.

Bells Screamed all off key, wrangling together as they collided in midair, horns and whistles mingled shrilly with cries of human distress; sulphur-colored light ex-ploded through the black windowpane and flashed away in darkness. Miranda waking from a dreamless sleep asked without expecting an answer, “What is happening?” for there was a bustle of voices and footsteps in the corridor, and a sharpness in the air; the far clamour went on, a furious exasperated shrieking like a mob in revolt. The light came on, and Miss Tanner said in a furry voice, “Hear that? They’re celebrating . It’s the Armistice. The war is over, my dear.” Her hands trembled. She rattled a spoon in a cup, stopped to listen, held the cup out to Miranda. From the ward for old bedridden women down the hall floated a ragged chorus of cracked voices singing, “My country, ’tis of thee…” Sweet land… oh terrible land of this bitter world where the sound of rejoicing was a clamour of pain, where ragged tuneless old women, sitting up waiting for their evening bowl of cocoa, were singing, “Sweet land of Liberty-” “Oh, say, can you see?” their hopeless voices were asking next, the hammer strokes of metal tongues drowning them out. “The war is over,” said Miss Tanner, her underlap held firmly, her eyes blurred. Miranda said, “Please open the window, please, I smell death in here.

Not Your Stereotypical Southern Belle By Betsy Shearon, George Grits I grew up being more interested in scoring touchdowns than wearing tiaras. I never particularly wanted to get married and was well into my thirties before I even got engaged. And although I am a devoted aunt, the call of motherhood for me has always sounded strangely similar to the “Warning Will Robinson!” cry on the old Lost in Space television show. Still, I consider myself a true Southern Girl, simply because, as we say in the South, my mama done raised me right. I say, “yes, ma’am,” “no, sir,” “please” and “thank you.” I am respectful of my elders, even my great-aunt Ida Mable, whose food we were never allowed to eat at family reunions. (Suffice it to say that eccentricity not only runs in my family, it pretty much gallops.) I always wear clean underwear in case I am in an accident. And I always leave the house clean before I go on a trip in case I get killed and strangers have to come into my house to get my funeral wear (this is despite the fact that I have yet to read an obituary that said, “she left a husband, two children, and an immaculate house.”) And I know things that only Southern girls know, such as the fact that it is possible to “never talk to strangers and at the same time greet everyone you meet with a smile and a hello. I know that it is possible to “always tell the truth,” but to always answer “fine” when someone asks how you are--even if your hair is on fire at the time. It is this knowledge that allows us to turn the other cheek when people say ugly things like “Southern girls are stupid, barefoot and pregnant.” Southern girls realize that, given the swollen feet and ankles that accompany pregnancy, going barefoot when possible is actually a very smart and sensible thing to do--and that the Yankees who say things like that probably wouldn’t talk so ugly if their feet didn’t hurt, bless their hearts.

All that is to say that the dark is our friend, and this is precisely what it was invented for. Most of us spend most of our time in the daylight, however, so it behooves us to get to the gym.

I’m saying this is the South. And we’re proud of our crazy people. We don’t hide them up in the attic. We bring ‘em right down to the living room and show ‘em off. No one in the South ever asks if you have crazy people in your family. They just ask what side they’re on.” – Dixie Carter, better known as Julia Sugarbaker of Designing Women.

Most of us need a good ride on the Sin Wagon, and if I were to meet a man who was better looking than say, Yoda, I might treat him to some Serta hospitality. I’d like to have said this to Mama but could not because she is certain that a real Southern lady doesn’t enjoy the business at hand.

Miffed, Opal said, “Oh, good grief. Knock off the Southern belle act. Just because you wear my gloves and speak like a debutante doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten the first days of your twenties.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” she drawled. “Soiled. Dove. Need I say anything more?

I witnessed this. In 1981 I played in the St. Louis Cardinal organization in a league encompassing Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia and Kentucky. We had numerous African-American and black Dominican players. I can honestly say I never saw a hint of prejudice, and in fact I found Southern belles oddly drawn to the black players more than the white ones.

Now the wind begins to stir. They call this a Santa Ana, this wind which comes from the desert beyond the city, unpredictable and fierce, scenting the irradiated night with sagebrush and sand. She takes pleasure in the way it howls through its broken Spanish mouth, shattering leaves, breaking the branches of trees, etching its insistent southern story in a braille of twisted fronds. She enjoys the stillness in the mornings after the winds have passed, after the winds have ripped the palms, made confetti of the pale listless fronds, dragged their anemic sun-drained fronds to the ground. Then the city has been purified. A sense of salt lingers. The calligraphy is obvious. At such moments she understands exactly what God is saying. His voice rises with the clarity of church bells above the debris. And God is saying the party is over.

Deciding she'd earned a snack break, Mae moved over to the refreshments table. She slowly walked along it, taking mental inventory: a whole sliced ham, its edges dark and shiny. A colorful macaroni salad speckled with chunks of tomatoes, bell peppers, celery, and carrots in a creamy dressing. Deviled eggs loaded with filling and a healthy shake of paprika. Chunky potato salad a deep shade of golden yellow. Seeing it plucked a string in her chest. Her dad, who considered himself a potato salad connoisseur, said a sign of a good potato salad was what color it was. If it's white, it ain't right, he used to say. She loaded her plate with a little of everything--- and an extra-large scoop of potato salad. Mae brought a forkful to her mouth, tasting a sharp zing of mustard and sweet pickle relish. It was creamy, tangy, and so much better than the pale, bland potato salad Madison's mom made every Easter.