Sweet Tea and Time

I have always loved sweet iced tea! In the South, it has meaning beyond just merely being a refreshing beverage. Here, where time slows down, it is a type of Southern communion, shared with friends and family dating back to its early days when first planted in my hometown of Summerville, South Carolina. In fact, Summerville has an entire festival proclaiming that little piece of history—The Sweet Tea Festival!

Sweet Tea is an offering, of sorts, to friends, family, and even strangers when they visit. It denotes hospitality and signals that the visitor is welcome. It says, “We have something in common.” It says, “I know your kind of people.” For some Southern ladies, it is a bit of an insult to turn down their kind offering of tea. I’ve seen my own mother become offended because someone watered down her sweet tea. In the South, we drink each other’s sweet tea as is…without complaint. It’s just good manners—like our mommas taught us.

My latest novel, available now on Amazon, SWEET TEA AND TIME, is a book from my Summerbrook Series that explores the ties among hospitality, comfort food, sweet tea and an accidental romance in a small, Southern town. The book follows the disappointments of a young woman who wants to protect her aging grandmother, who gives away her sweet tea to all she meets. In many instances in the story, the motif of sweet tea can be exchanged with the motif of time. If one has time for sweet tea, one has time for people.

I used the idea of sweet tea because it is so important to Southerners.  They even note in which local restaurants they can find a suitable version of grandma’s homemade sweet tea, and they’ll sometimes make their dining choices accordingly. It’s that serious, people!

Though not officially condoned, sometimes, condiments are added to our favorite amber-colored drink to change up the monotony of the ubiquitous drink. People have added lemon and mint for ages, but a new favorite is emerging, as well—peach iced tea. I’ve seen a number of other versions, as well, like ginger sweet tea, strawberry sweet tea and black currant sweet tea. But those are anomalies and would get you a very strange look from most Southerners who prefer the beverage in its purest form—nothing but brewed tea and sugar!

The cooling beverage can be found in restaurants all across the South, but don’t look for the sweet nectar in Yankee territory. They’ll look at you quizzically and offer their “unsweetened” version. But don’t order it because if you don’t add the sugar to the warm brew, it’s just not the same.

Sweet tea is best sipped slowly a front porch with family and friends, so brew yourself up a big gallon of Southern hospitality, find a person you want to share some time with, sit on that front porch rocker and let a lazy afternoon slip away!

The Garden

My Garden

When azaleas bloomed and my liquid youth appeared bottomless,

The path in the garden was meandering and endless.

I sang and traipsed about the sundial, ignoring shadows and rays.

And when the scented melody from magnolia flowers crooned common notes,

My path became paved and straight.

I built necessary bridges and garden gates and was imprisoned by their exacting beauty.

But when the air turned crisp, the trail became narrowed by unpruned shrubs

And rough with rising roots.

Littered with leaves, needles and withered blooms, my walk grew labored and long.

Now, the cold encases the thick evergreens that tower above me,

And I struggle to make my unmarked way through a foreign, unforgiving forest.

But it was my garden, my path, my walk…my way,

And as my way grows dim and uncertain, I realize that I wouldn’t change a step.

--Vicki Wilkerson

Speaking of Southern...Food

Speaking of Southern...Food

Good Southern writers know how to easily evoke a Southern atmosphere in their novels. Just use food. Not just any food, though—authentic Southern food. At the mere mention of grits, cornbread and collard greens, you know what you’re reading is set in the South—or you have a character longing to be there.

Certain foods are synonymous with the area below the Mason-Dixon Line. But why? Well, much is geographic fertility. For example, Georgia and South Carolina peaches are the sweetest available because of the soil. Our former president, Jimmy Carter, made Georgia peanuts famous because of his farm (and if you’re in the South, you’ve got to boil them there peanuts). To taste a region of the South, gather your pecans in Mississippi, grind up some sugar cane from Louisiana, bake up some sweet potatoes from Alabama, or shuck a few ears of sweet, Southern corn from North Carolina.

Many of our foods have an African-American influence because of the plantations that dotted the Southern landscape. It is where we get okra, and thank goodness for okra soup and fried okra and okra pilau! Black-eyed peas and rice were staples on large plantations and on Southern tables today. Benne seeds and sorghum were used in many dishes, and melons were a perfect treat in the relentless Southern heat. All have roots in African heritage and soil.

But by far the most influential component to Southern foods is family. Families passed down their recipes like they were passing down the crown jewels. Try to get your hands on some families’ prized fruitcake recipes or their barbecue recipes, and you’ll get your hand chopped off! Many Southern families identify themselves with their unique recipes for the foods all Southerners enjoy. For some, their recipes make their families special—and they don’t give away their “specialness” easily.

In my family, my grandmother made a mean red velvet cake, and my mom cooks some awesome fried chicken—amongst many other amazing things—especially her red rice and chicken and dumpling soup (which I have desecrated—according to Mother—by deboning and shredding the chicken). The list of my family favorites goes on forever, and I am proud that we are a family who shares recipes.

I know a family who keeps their shrimp and grits recipe under lock and key, an in-law that will NOT share her cookie recipe with me, even though I hinted and asked for years, until I gave up hope. I also have a favorite uncle who will not give up his barbecue sauce recipe—except to family, and we are sworn to secrecy on that one! Whether Southerners share or not, it’s all good, because even if they don’t share their recipes, they always share their food. Bon appetit, and happy Thanksgiving, y’all!

 

A Parable

Let’s pretend…I’m an artist. Let’s say Michelangelo. And I love my art SO much that I want to share it with others. I decide to inspire young people, so I invite them into my studio. I’m on fire and those kids are falling in love with art, too! I see interest and appreciation and promise! I spend twelve hours a day fueling their excitement, and I even spend much of my own money to encourage them. I’ve found my calling beyond myself—my calling for humanity!

Then, the town officials get involved because there is a lot of buzz about what I’m doing. They create a…Department of Art. There are lots of highly-paid officials on the payroll. And, of course, they must DO something to justify their fat salaries. So, they come into my studio to observe me. They make me write down absolutely every little thing I say and do—how many brushes I use, what paintings I’m showing them, why I’m telling them this or that. They start giving me all these rules and regulations that really have nothing to do with the art in my studio, but I follow their rules because I’m fueled by the excitement from my students.

My twelve hours of passionately inspiring my little artists turn into ten hours of inspiration and two hours of tedium. I can deal with that. Then seven hours of passion are followed by five hours of tedium. I’m tired. Finally, half my time is spent on paperwork and plans and codes and reports. I still muster the excitement for those six hours of each day, but it begins to wear down my artist’s soul.

With great regret, I turn in my resignation.

Moral of the Day: Great teachers quit or change professions every day and it has nothing to do with their precious students or doing the thing they love to do—which is to teach.

Now, Vicki will get off her high horse because Vicki has gotten something off her chest…for today.

I have turned my love of teaching literature and writing into writing and creating literature of my own. But I still get wistful about my days in the classroom.

Oh, and by the way, I really am an artist, too! Below is my most recent piece.

 

 

Getting out of the "Cave"

Getting out of the “Cave”

Writers are a curious lot. We sometimes cannot wait to wall ourselves off from the world and write or edit, and then there are other times when we cannot wait to put ourselves out there to conduct research, to speak at functions, or to talk to readers.

One of my most favorite things to do as a writer, however, is to hang with other writers—most other writers. I have my favorites—and they know, of course, who they are (hugs). We support one another, give each other advice, bounce ideas around the table, and are there for each other for just about anything the others need. Because we understand that we are “a curious lot.”

Spoleto has burst upon Charleston once again and has inspired my writer buds to venture out of our “caves” for a little diversion and for lunch in one of the tea rooms in downtown Charleston. (photo to come)

So, though I love my “writing cave”(pictured below) and am inspired there, I cannot wait to get a different kind of inspiration from my friends this week.

 

 

 

Walk That Story Out

Walk That Story Out

Writers begin their days in many ways with many rituals. Some include coffee, some with inspirational reading, and some with banging their heads against their computer keyboards because they don’t know where their story is going. My favorite way to begin my writing day is with walking.

Walking, you ask? To begin writing? Yes!

When I write, there is nothing like a long walk to energize my brain—physically and inspirationally. I march a while for exercise, getting my blood flowing; then it turns into a head-clearing stroll as I notice the trees and nature around me, and finally it turns into a storyboard walk.

I recall where I last ended my story and evaluate how the plot is going and the characters are developing. I work out any problems that I may have there, and then I begin to think about where I want to end up on that writing day. Finally, I think about how I’m going to reach my writing goal while writing that day.

The remainder of my walk is figuring out details, imagining scenes, and developing dialogue for my characters. (For those of you who don’t write, hearing imaginary voices in your heads is NOT a good thing.)

Walking—yes, physical exercise—energizes my body, mind, spirit…and story! So, writers, walk that story out!

 

 

Writing on Winter Afternoons

Writing on Winter Afternoons

On some days, I love reading Emily Dickinson. But I have to be in a “mood” to read her. One of my favorite poems of hers is “A certain Slant of light.” Cold, empty winter afternoons remind me of this poem, and today is one such day. Enjoy:

“There’s a certain Slant of light”  

Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886

There’s a certain Slant of light,

Winter Afternoons – 

That oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes – 

 

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us – 

We can find no scar,

But internal difference,

Where the Meanings, are – 

 

None may teach it – Any – 

‘Tis the Seal Despair – 

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the Air – 

 

When it comes, the Landscape listens – 

Shadows – hold their breath – 

When it goes, ‘tis like the Distance

On the look of Death – 

I used to read this poem to my students when I taught American Literature. I use the word “read” instead of “teach” because—like Emily said—“None may teach it.” The poem is not a story. It is a feeling, a moment, an impression that comes when the winter seeps into one’s soul when the angled rays of the sun streams though a cold pane, casting crooked rectangles on the floor.

That moment forces my thoughts to freeze, almost as if I’ve been stunned. It comes from nowhere and leaves without warning, taking something of me with it, leaving a hollow space—at least for a while.

What good can a poem like that, or a feeling like that do for a writer? It fills her with “mood,” “setting,” “feelings,” and “ideas”—not the “story” of a book but the depth of a book. I welcome those moments, the ones that steal in like a thief, take what is theirs, and leave me with literary riches.