I walked into my parent's house this morning to the smell of baking biscuits and frying bacon. It has become a ritual for us to eat together every week. We fixed our plates full of biscuits, bacon, and strawberry preserves and sat down to eat.
"Joyce's camellia is blooming," I told my father in between bites of wonderful breakfast food.
Dad walked over to stand at the backdoor to see if his, too, were blooming.
"Mother always liked camellias," dad said. "She would always keep a bowl of blooms on her dining room table."
Dad talked a lot of football this morning which didn't interest me. I barely kept up with the Auburn game yesterday. I realize I would have a stronger bond with my father if I took some interest in sports. It all seems rather silly to me, though.
I left to drive home just as the hordes of church goers were leaving church at noon. Car after expensive car paraded by the front of my parent's house as I tried to get out in the road. It didn't perturb me. I thought wistfully of the quaintness of small southern town life and how much religion is important to that existence. I've thought often of if you can't beat them then join them. My thoughts on organized religion are an entirely different blog post and would violate one of my cardinal rules of blogging, though.