This week’s column reminds me of a joke — how much does a sorority girl weigh? Oh, about a monogram! Hahaha! Hey, you know you laughed!
Alexis Savannah Smith always complains she can’t monogram her guest towels because no one will use them. Monograms are a very big deal in the South, and a good Southern mother knows to not only be careful with selecting the child’s actual name, but to also consider the initials and the potential power held by a good monogram.
Suddenly, everyone thinks it’s cool to be from the South. People from hither and yon are moving down here in droves trying to fit in by inappropriately blurting out, “y’all” and sticking two foot tall vinyl monograms on the back of their mini-van windows which somehow makes them think they’re Scarlett O’Hara. Yes, it’s true we love monograms, but there are a few guidelines everyone needs to remember.
Although monograms didn’t originate in the South, Southerners have taken to the trend like a pig to corn, and monogram everything we own. Our five options for dealing with anything that sits still more than ten minutes is; 1. shoot it and eat it, 2. spray paint it, 3. fry it, 4. put a bow on it, or 5. monogram it. Of course, you’re allowed to double up and put a monogram on the bow for double cuteness points, but remember, combining spray paint with a monogram is just seen as vandalism, as poor Flora Ursula Crocker learned as she was being read her rights by Decatur’s chief of police.
Southerners cherish monograms because it’s the ultimate symbol of family. It’s who we are, and where we belong. We value the place from which we came and cherish the stories of hard working ancestors. The recent trend of exploring geneology isn’t new to us at all. My husband, whose New Jersey and New York families came through Ellis Island only two generations ago, had to rely on computer programs to locate his long-lost history. I, on the other hand already had paperwork on seventeen previous generations of Southerners on both sides of my family. The information was written in numerous family Bibles, recorded and documented in the church records and cemeteries. Our stories were orally passed down, with tales of colorful kinfolk, including one, who is one of the 13 ghosts of Alabama. Having a registered haint in my family makes me a dad-gum, official, bonafide belle. I know who my people are, and my people know me, and our shared monogram is the tie that binds.
“Sugar, these aren’t just regular old gumbo spoons, the “L” on the handles lets you know they are the . . . click HERE to finish the story at AL.com. – Thank you, darlings!