After a recent late morning

meeting I drove over to the Culpepper House in Senoia where they serve

such a wonderful lunch in that elegant, southern B&B style for which

they are known far and wide.

Upon entering the lovely old

Victorian home, I asked for a quiet corner table for one. Maggie told

me I was in luck, that it was a really quiet day. It was 1 p.m. and the

place had just cleared out. I was, in fact, now the only patron. That

was a good thing. Unusual, but good.

Maggie was an angel. Back and

forth she came and went from the kitchen. One course after another she

served me with true southern grace and charm.

First, there were the scones

with jam and cream. Then came the tomato bisque garnished with fresh herbs.

(She and her partner grow their own herbs, along with much of their produce.)

The main course was a beautifully

presented assortment of quiche, sandwiches, pasta and fruit. Then followed

the dessert, homemade cherry ice cream with a to-die-for slice of chocolate

cake.

She said the tea would soothe

me. A special blend. A house secret. She gave me two little packs to take

with me. She said each pack would make three cups.

I felt a little like the guy

(or girl) in the movies who lingers long at the deserted bar and tells

the bar-keeper all his problems.

Margie picked up right away

on the fact that I was not having a good day. Although I did not have

lots of problems, the one big one that haunted me haunted hard.

After my meeting, I had figured

I could treat myself to a really special lunch or just go home and have

a pity party. Seemed like a no-brainer, to me so the lunch won out.

Margie and I got to talking

about two really wonderful folk art prints that are displayed over the

tea and coffee service buffet. One depicts what it must have been like

at a quilting bee a hundred or so years ago. The other is an old fashioned

dinner on the grounds at a beautiful little country church of yesteryear.

I like the prints.

We talked about how both of

our dads had been Baptist preachers of the sort that pastored such country

churches. We miss our fathers. We wondered if any real old-fashioned baptisms

ever took place anymore in America. (If you know of any area congregations

who still" gather by the river" write to me at P.O. Box 246,

Gay, GA 30218.)

Like I said, it really was

not a good day. For me. And Maggie didn't give up until she had cheered

me up. I owe her.

Just in case you are not real

pleased with your present circumstances or with the way this present day

is unfolding let me share with you a copy of something Maggie gave me

to take with me as I left that day. She called it something else to think

about. It worked.

I regret that neither she nor

I know the author. I always hesitate to print such as this without giving

credit to whom credit is due. But some things are just too good to pass

up.

If you are ever over Senoia

way, check out the following list that Maggie and Barbara keep taped to

their back door and see if you measure up.

Things that a True Southerner

knows:

The difference between a hissie

fit and a conniption fit.

Pretty much how many fish

make up a mess.

What general direction cattywumpus

is.

How long "directly"

is ,Äì as in "going to town, be back directly."

That "gimme sugar"

don't mean pass the sugar.

How to handle their "pot

likker."

When "by and by"

is.

The difference between "pert'

near" and " a right fur piece."

The difference between a redneck,

a good ol' boy and po' white trash.

Never to go snipe hunting

twice.

Never to assume that the other

car with the flashing signal is actually going to make a turn.

The best gesture of solace

for a neighbor who's got trouble is a plate of cold tater salad.

There was no cold potato salad

on the "tour" menu that I sampled that day, but there was something

so much better. A special lady with

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