Blogging

I have been blogging to promote the release of Only You, an Angel Ridge novel, now available for order form www.bellbridgebooks.com and at www.amazon.com. I had a particularly lively discussion led by Dixie Ferguson, the proprietor of Ferguson's Diner in Angel Ridge last week, so I thought I would post that blog here to see if we can keep the discussion going.

Here it is.

Enjoy!

DGS

Hey, ya’ll! Dixie Ferguson here. I’m sitting in for Deb Staley, aka Deborah Grace Staley, who will likely stop by later today. I run Ferguson’s Diner in Angel Ridge, Tennessee, which is featured in Deb’s new Bell Bridge Books release, Only You.

First, I’ll tell you a little bit about our corner of the world, just to get you acclimated, and then I’ll mostly be talking about what it’s like living in a small southern town like Angel Ridge.
Angel Ridge is a picturesque town in East Tennessee, established in 1785. It overlooks the valley of the Little Tennessee River. This town’s seen a lot over the years. In the early days, its first families staked their claims on hundreds of acres along the banks of the river. Some built their homes along the riverbank, others operated more modest farms on the backside of the ridge, while others were content to build modest homes in the town that developed high up on the ridge where they’d be safe from the river’s flooding.

Long story short, the Flood Control Board came along in the 1970s and built a dam upriver, making a new lake and taking all the homes in the valley. Some called these stately homes relics of a bygone era, but regardless of how you might see it, these folks elbowed their way into our sleepy town and commenced to attempting to take over the running of Angel Ridge. I say “attempting” because some of us up here don’t take to being told how to live our lives. We’re more in favor of moving beyond old hurts to create a new generation in Angel Ridge made strong because of their roots, yet free of its past.

After all the years I've spent behind the counter at Ferguson's, I could probably tell ya'll a story about near everyone in town. In Only You, we’ll focus on Josie Allen and Cole Craig. This is a story about coming home. It's also a story about acceptin' folks for who they are. You could say it's a story about a librarian and a handyman, but I say it's a story about finding love where you'd least expect to. Ya know, those kinds of things always seem to happen when you open up your heart to possibilities. Of course, a little help from our hometown angels and yours truly don't hurt none either!

Now, let’s see . . . Where was I? Oh, yes. Life in a small southern town. Some believe a woman should be seen and not heard. That comes from our Baptist roots, but I say that’s a bunch of hooey. After all, the first folks to preach the gospel were Mary and Margaret who went to the tomb and found Jesus had risen. If they’d kept quiet, the disciples would have gone right on crying in their grape juice in the upper room. So, following in that tradition, you can always count on me or any other good southern woman who’s worth her salt to speak their mind!

Case in point, a woman should wear a hat to church, particularly on high holy days like Easter and Christmas. I sing in the choir down to the Baptist church in town. I point that out because there is one other church sitting at the end of Main Street, and that’s First Presbyterian. They have dances and socials in their fellowship hall where folks have been known to share a glass of wine. Of course, at the Baptist church, there’s none of that foolishness going on, but we have been know to get a little charismatic in church services saying, “Amen,” when Preacher Strong makes a good point that someone in the congregation needs to take to heart (and they know who they are), or the raising of hands when the choir sings a good song that touches you.

But I digress. One Easter Sunday morning a few years back, I busted up into the choir room of the First Baptist church sporting a mighty fine Easter hat as is my habit on Easter Sunday Morning because Jesus don’t like it when ladies don’t wear a hat on Easter Sunday! I put on my choir robe and sat down as we waited to have Brother Sam, our fine music minister, take us through a rousing rendition of “He Arose” which we were starting the service with.
I was sitting there chatting with Ella Clayman, minding my own business, when Sadie Watts, God love her, called to me from the back of the room, “Dixie!” in that clipped little voice of hers that sets your teeth on edge. “Dixie!” she said, “You are wearing a hat!”

I turned, smiled, and said, “Yeah,” because it was clear for anyone to see that I was indeed wearing a hat, and it was fabulous if I do say so myself, and I do. Peacock blue with yellow flowers to match my yellow dress. The shoes, of course, were also peacock blue. But again, I digress.

“Dixie!” Sadie called again from the back of the room. “You are not wearing that hat!”
To which I replied, “Yeah,” because I most certainly was wearing that hat, and very well I might add. Jesus was very pleased.

“Dix-ie!” Sadie called, a little louder this time. “You-are-NOT-wearing-that-hat!”
To which I replied, once again, “Yeah,” because I most certainly was wearing that hat, as I had previously stated.

I turned back to continue my pleasant conversation with Ella. Well, about that time, there was a commotion in the back of the choir room. Everybody turned to see Sadie huffing and puffing out of the choir room, her robe flapping the breeze. Well, I say good riddance.

I proceeded to Easter Sunday morning service wearing my hat with my choir robe. I looked fabulous and the choir sounded even better. I think we always sound better on Resurrection Day and Jesus' Birthday, but you know that wasn’t the end of it. No. Sadie called a meeting on Monday morning with the pastor, the music minister, and the chairman of the deacons, who just happened to be her husband.

Next thing I knew, I was called into a meeting with the music minister and told that henceforth and forever more, ladies would not be permitted to wear hats with their choir robes. To which I replied, “You know, Jesus don’t like it when ladies aren’t permitted to wear hats in his house on Resurrection Day. And besides, how can a person be expected to properly hoop and holler if they can’t throw their hat in the air?” One never knows in a good Baptist church when such an occasion might arise.

But to no avail. Brother Sam was out-voted 2-1. So, I guess I’ll have to sing in the choir without my choir robe when I choose to wear a hat, which I might add, is often because I do love how a fine hat sets off a fabulous outfit!

Which brings me to my next point. Southern women are born with steel in their spines. They may look and speak like the soft, snowy white, sweet-smellin’ magnolia blossoms growing on our centuries old trees, but looks are deceivin’.

Thank you for visiting with us on the High Hats and Sweet Tea Blog tour. We’ll be here all day talking about Deborah Grace Staley’s novel, Only You, and dispensin’ southern wisdom.
Ya’ll take care now!

Dixie Ferguson