There wasn't very much of me back then. I was a tiny girl, just big enough to reach up and grab hold of the wooden counter top in that old country store and lift my chin enough to allow my eyes to peer up in quiet fascination at the man who rang up the items that Mama had laid down.
I'm Dixie Dew. If you read my mama's column weekly then you know that I'm the precious little red-haired dachshund of which she so affectionately writes every week. For the record, and not because I'm a bragger, but I am every bit as cute as she says. If anything, she downplays my cuteness.
Any Southern woman, worth her weight in Martha White flour, has at least one drawer or cookbook in her kitchen stuffed with recipes she has torn out of magazines or newspapers, fully intending to try each and every one of them.
One night back in the summer, Louise, Rodney and I stopped to see Russell and Neva, whom we have all known in one way or the other for decades. Yet, we go ages without seeing each other. It's a crying shame, as Mama would say.
When Robert, a devout reader of this column who also happens to be an accomplished researcher in matter of family lineage, offered to trace my family roots, I accepted faster than kudzu can grow on a hot summer's day.