We can't all be southern belles . . .

I've been reading a lot of Anne Rivers Siddons the past couple of weeks. Her stories are pretty much centered around the South Carolina low country. Spinning tales of sweet tea sipped on wide veranda's, hung with large ancient fans droning slowly through the smoldering air. Delicate women in long floral skirts and silk blouses, glowing and chatting amongst themselves in the stifling warmth. Old southern gentility at its finest.

Yet a mere 400 miles south, another woman is found unceremoniously spread out in a lounge chair accompanied by pulp fiction and a bloody mary. She is baking in the sun like a beached tuna . . . . riddled with freckles and age spots.



Such is the life that someone has to lead . . .