Porch Sitting MoFos

My husband and I chose to live on a street that has a bit of a reputation. The people who live there and hang out often are called the Magnolia Street Mafia. I'm not sure how the reputation evolved, and maybe one day I will ask the Don, but as it is, when you walk down the street, and people are on the porch where the Don abides, you want to stop to pay your respects.

The Don is not a benignly menacing king, like Corleone. He's so laid back, it would almost be a joke that he's the Don, but there is something commanding about him that tells you to give him that respect because he will give it back to you, two-fold. His house is open to you, his porch is your port of call and on those days when you just want to sit and talk to somebody, anybody, there he is, he and his mafia, ready to parlay.

Normally, I don't get to see the Don's wife, but tonight, she was out and I took the opportunity to sit and talk. There is something very arresting about her, the tilt of her head, the way she moves her hands, and when she speaks, her voice moves in and out of sound. I know, it's weird. You continue to hear everything she said, but it is almost rhythmic, like she's singing an Irish tune, the lilt almost imperceptible, but just there, in earshot. She speaks as if she loves everything she's saying, like she treasures each word she chooses. Each crafted story is her child, which she introduces to the world and she doesn't care if you think it's an ugly baby or not, she just cares that you got to see her precious bundles of joy.

I'm sure I'm making it all up, but as we sat on the porch, drinking our wine out of mason jars, talking about cell phones and trees blowing onto power lines, talking about birthday parties and CD release parties, the chill settling into our bones, I realized that there might be a few more things about the south that I like.