Growing up in Charleston is part of who I am;
It’s why I love culture, architecture, artistic expressions, and delicious food.
It’s where I gained my heart to love and the freedom to live.
It’s the place I call “home,” the hub for hearty eats and catching up over heartfelt conversations.
I was raised very conservatively, rooted in southern tradition of please and thank you, yes ma’am, no ma’am, and yes sir, no sir, finding myself in Sunday service twice on Sundays and at least once most other days of the week.
Being the middle child, I got the best of both worlds: a close friendship with my older sister and a trusted companion in my “big” younger brother. I always say I am the favorite child, but according to them, the verdict is still out.
Mom and dad are grounded in the Lord, and made sure that we knew “right is right, and wrong is wrong!” I often had my name called out at long measure, “Karen!” then “Kaarrrennnnn!” I was often mouthy in the moment, inquisitive in intellect when learning was a pleasure and when my curiosity got the best of me…
Sunday dinners at Granny’s was a staple; birthdays were a special treat for my cousin and me who are only a day apart: Granny would make us our own homemade birthday cakes, and we’d share in birthday celebrations at our grandmother’s house. To this day we both have an undeniable sweet tooth.
True seasons existed back then. Summers were so hot, you’d better be careful not to “catch the monkey” (i.e. heat stroke), and in the winter we wore real jackets and had to pre-warm our car before school.
Summer vacation seemed so much longer then, where fun was fueled by football, roller blading, basketball and super soakers in the yard closed out by midnight slumber parties with cousins and friends over all-night movies and video gaming with SEGA Genesis, Nintendo, and PlayStation. We eventually got an Xbox.
And then we got a computer. I’m not sure I even want to “go there.” It was a LARGE one-piece machine where we all logged onto AOL over dial-up…
Wooeeeeoooo … “You’ve Got Mail!”
– P.S., Kaye –