Mason Jar Moments 3/29/2020

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

One of my favorite authors once said writers from the South always write with a sense of place. This applies to me I suppose in the sense that I write, and here I am in Alabama where I have lived the whole of my life other than being born in Mississippi; there you have it.  I pondered this statement and concluded that he was very correct.  Whether a soul loathes this place with every fiber of their being or is drowning in a ridiculous love affair with everything that makes this region what it is, you cannot write without it finding its way in.  It’s a plotline. It’s a backdrop. It’s a character.  It just casually drapes itself all over the pen and flows out nonchalantly whether it’s the writer’s choice or not.

Now, please note, everything that I write on this page (I say this hoping at some point someone reads the this or else I’m just rambling to myself which…is ok too I suppose) will not be about the south but I felt you should be forewarned, it will sneak into my words.  It will probably be more prevalent than I anticipate but I will try not to let it take over.  If this deters you from reading here, I understand.  If I were just letting my southern flag fly all willy nilly I’d say something like whatever butters your biscuit, but I shan’t. I shall say something far more universal like whatever tinkles your bells.  See, there I managed my southern-ness.  Oh, and no, they aren’t cow bells either. This is not Starkville, Mississippi. Hmm. This refraining from southern references may prove harder than anticipated.

(If you don’t get that last reference, contact me, I’ll explain.)

However dear reader, if it’s alright, I’d like to willingly let this little foray dip way below the Mason-Dixon.  I promise to migrate elsewhere soon.  Now I need to stop writing about writing and write. (That is really such classic me though. You’ll learn if you keep reading, and I’m sorry now.)

Have you ever had a moment or two that you felt so deeply, that moved you so significantly that you wished you could seal the entire experience up into some time-proof container to relive over and over again, or at the very least let someone else have the pleasure of experiencing? I suppose we all have had those moments that are so poignant that we couldn’t forget them even if we tried.

These are the types of moments that I wish desperately that I could bottle and give to people.

I don’t know even if I could put these moments in a mason jar (because of course I’d put it in a Mason jar; I am a good southerner after all) would have the same impact that they do on me.   I wish I could tell you about every one of these experiences, but they could very well be a case of to each their own.  But of course, I am going to write about them here because…it’s kinda what I do.

I have had them as the wind whispered through ancient oaks draped with Spanish moss in a cemetery not far from Selma.  The dates and inscriptions on the stones telling stories of heartache and history that I couldn’t begin to imagine.

I’ve had them as I heard people playing lilting melodies with a distinctly Scotch-Irish trill on hammered dulcimer in the Great Smoky Mountains. Every time I hear it I am always amazed at how much like home these notes sound.

I’ve even had them in the simplicity of my own backyard letting my daughter taste the little drop of sweetness at the base of a honeysuckle blossom.  She also recently got significantly excited (for an almost 4 year old) over the beauty of a refinished oak floor. That thrilled me to no end.  But I digress.

She gives me jar worthy moments quite often.

There is nothing quite like hearing her in depth discussion with cows we pass while traveling down a rural highway or those random moments where she runs up to you and grabs you and tells you how much she loves you. If it could be jarred, boxed or bottled I guarantee just a whiff of the stuff could solve a large portion of the world’s problems.

Southerners live in a land of these moments. There is something about it here.  It has to be in the air or the earth because it impacts man and nature the same.  The people here are passionate.  We love everything almost disproportionally.  From our food to our family to our football the intensity is unparalleled.  

If only there was a way to put in a jar that feeling you get when you see that elderly person who “knew your folks back when…” 

The South is full of families joined by blood and by sheer love which is often stronger than blood.  Often these same families could despise each other to the point that they wouldn’t spit on them if they were on fire, only to be protective to the point of rabid violence if anyone outside of said family spoke a solitary word against them. That is southern passion at its finest. 

If I could only get in the jar the taste of the inevitable fried chicken and casseroles that magically show up when a loved one passes with that flavor that doesn’t heal the heart but at least distracts the stomach. 

I also want to have a jar of the sound of church with a symphony of the notes of old hymns, and the swishing of funeral home fans and random impassioned amens.  Heat and only moderately comfortable pews would add to this moment.  If you could throw in ragged hymnals, a slightly out of tune piano and a preacher who looks at his watch and promises he’s closing at least four times before doing so…then you have iced the cake. 

And of course, there is the legendary hospitality here. It’s so cliché but it’s so true. A stranger can only be a stranger for so long in these parts. If you let us get our hands on you, we will feed you. We’re hopeless feeders.  (If you’ve seen the bulk of our waists…you know this but please consider it’s a love-based ailment.)  And once we’ve fed you and our cholesterol is in your arteries, well, we have you then. We may as well be “blood kin” as they say.  That overwhelming welcome that you get at most tables here, it’s a warm living thing.  It’s like a warm tide that just swirls around you and carries you away but in the most comfortable, carefree way possible.  Some random soul has become a part of a new family once a plate has been thrust in their hands.

Maybe I am just rambling to you about something you already know because you’re living it every day.  Maybe your life is full of these moments and you’re reading this and nodding.  I think that’s my goal in this big rambling post. I want those of us who know to read and nod and smile.  I want those who don’t have these moments to wonder to themselves what they can do to start filling their Mason jars. You don’t have to be southern to do it. I mean bless your heart if you aren’t, but we’ll be happy to lend you a jar if they aren’t easy to come by in your neck of the woods. 

Don’t let life pass you by without stealing away those Mason jar moments.  On a day that is less than what you’d hoped they are an invaluable resource.  Twist off that lid and inhale a big head full of nostalgia, love and memory.  I recommend it as a glorious cure for what ails you.