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A little crazy runs in Southern families
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My grandmother, Daddy’s mother, was sometimes called “crazy” by others who didn’t quite understand her eccentric ways.

Of course, in the South, we are proud of such a label. It means we are interesting and worthy of being the center of coffee-and-cake conversation. Who wants to be completely normal and boring?

If I descended from a rational, reasonable, logical family, I would work the window at a fast-food joint and have no stories to tell. Then, I would have no career. Therefore, I am grateful for every ounce of eccentricity that has ever flowed through the veins of anyone with whom I share blood.

When I was a kid, I was helping an old maid aunt — as they were called in those days before political correctness overtook us and threw us to the ground — gather vegetables in her garden.

“Leave some of them tomatoes on that there vine,” she instructed.

I looked at the perfectly ripe, juicy tomatoes and studied them for a moment. I was then and am still now very inquisitive. I must always know the reason behind every instruction or request.

“Why?” I asked. “They’ll start to rot in a day or two.”

She straightened up, took a small can of snuff from her apron pocket, opened it and took a pinch. Before she put it inside her lower lip, she smiled and explained.

“Because the Martians need sumptin’ to eat. Leave it for ’em.”

Thankfully, I watched reruns of the old television show, “My Favorite Martian” so I knew she was talking about people from Mars. I opened my mouth to dispute such aliens existed but closed it and shrugged. Maybe she was right. At least people like her are open to possibilities that sensible people are closed to.

Now, my grandmother — Maw-Maw we called her — was smart as a whip. She was educated in a way that few mountain people of her generation were. She became a practical nurse then up and moved north to West Virginia, where she worked for years. There, in the midst of people not our own, she grew smarter and wiser. When finally she returned, she carried herself with the confidence and air of a “Philadelphia lawyer” as our people said whenever they saw someone extraordinarily smart and well-dressed.

But she definitely had her peculiarities. She heard voices from time to time — informative, friendly voices — and somewhere along the line, she took to toting a shotgun throughout the house and wherever she went for she was convinced men walked on her roof at night and were “trying to drive me crazy.” She never answered a knock at the door without the trusty shotgun aimed and ready to defend. Whenever she took a notion, she shot a hole through the roof, and once she was convinced she had mortally wounded one.

She smiled, well pleased with herself. “I showed him.”

Mama used to warn, “You girls better be careful. It’s in the genes.”

A cousin responded, “Yes, crazy runs in our family, but Jesus loves us anyway.”

Tink was in L.A. when first I heard the voice, a woman’s voice. It was 6 a.m. and I had just risen when the mysterious voice popped up. She was authoritative, commanding, but I could not understand the few words she mumbled other than “Please.”

I emailed him and asked, “Do you have any idea where it’s coming from?”

“Have you been hearing this voice long?” he asked.

“Funny,” I replied. “I know we have a family history but ...”

It turned out to be a warning voice from our alarm system, telling us a battery needed to be replaced soon.

But until I figured it out, it nearly drove me crazy. And, that’s one place I can probably get to on my own without any help.

It runs in the genes, you know.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of several books, including “There’s A Better Day A-Comin’.” Sign up for her newsletter at Her column appears Tuesdays and on

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