Even though both of my parents were Southerners, they came from two very different places south of the Mason-Dixon.  There was my father who was from the sandy soil of the North Carolina Piedmont.  He grew up on a farm where he had plowed with a mule, chopped tobacco and cotton, and toted water from a well.  He had worn overalls and eaten grits and red-eye gravy.  Then there was my mother who was from Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.  She could roller skate and ice skate with ease.  She learned to sew in Home Economics Class and to cook only after getting married.  Her biggest chores growing up were polishing the floor in the front foyer and checking out and returning books to the library for her mother.  She had been a fashionable city girl.

My father’s parents were simple country folks who ate biscuits for every meal at a plain table with minimal fuss.  My mother’s family lived in the city and enjoyed casseroles and dined at a table covered with lace or linen cloths and freshly cut flowers.

My father’s family was Southern Baptist.  They attended an old country church and my father was baptized in a nearby river.  Sunday morning in those oak pews rang with slow nasal twangs whining out “the Old Rugged Cross” to a banging upright piano.  My mother’s family was Methodist and at her baptism she was sprinkled from water held in a marble basin.  My daddy’s Baptist relatives raised their eyebrows at this and Daddy teased her.  “Barely saved,” he often joked.  Her church’s stone archways echoed with the strains of J.S.Bach reverberating through a pipe organ.

At times my parent’s Southern heritages meshed completely in attitude and understanding.  They both abided by the strict social rules regarding politeness and decency.  My brother and I were taught to say  “‘m’am” and “sir” and to address every cousin older than 21 by “Aunt” or “Uncle”.  Men and boys removed their hats in the house.  Girls kept their knees together when seated.  And only heathens would dare to curse aloud in public!

My parent’s cultural differences were sometimes subtle; sometimes striking; and some lost themselves along the way in their 50 years together.  However, there was one abiding issue that has not been resolved to this very day.  It involved mealtimes.

Now both my mother and father agreed that the first meal of the day is breakfast.  But after that, communication broke down!  My mother referred to the midday meal as lunch.  My father sneered at such nonsense.  He thought lunch was a dainty serving of sandwiches for sissies.  Real people, hard working folks, had dinner.  (And, by the way, this is pronounced “dunnah”.)  This noon meal consisted of steaming fresh garden vegetables, a meat of some sort, and, of course, biscuits.  This point of reference was the evening meal for my mother.  My dad insisted that was “supper”.  Mother staunchly contended that “supper” was a late meal served after 8 o’clock and since our family ate at 6 this was too early for “supper”.

From this eternal war of words I learned to be specific about the time when making plans.  Arrival or departure was never associated with the words “lunch” or “dinner” time as this could create havoc with scheduling.  Nothing could ever be said to occur before, during or after lunch or dinner without causing extreme frustration among my family participants.  An exact time needed be stated whenever plans were made.  That included Christmas dinner which my father believed was to be eaten at 12 noon and mother believed was at 6 o’clock sharp!