R. Scott Brunner - Due South: Dispatches from Down Home

IN the chill of January, she numbers her days.

She stands there at her back doorher gaze alternating between a view of the rear pasture through frosty storm windows on the back porch and one of those freebie wall calendars emblazoned with the Bank of Evergreen logo. On that calendar, with a felt-tip pen, steady of hand, she records the events of her lifethose sublimely quotidian activities and images that mark her existence.

Shes been doing this for as long as my wife, her granddaughter, can recall. Theres always been that calendar hanging by the back door, its squares filled with things that, to her, are worth noting: what she sees through those windows, for example.

In addition to her fastidious reports of peripheral flora and fauna and the days weather, she also notes phone calls and visits and diversions; along with her own activities, the life events of anyone to whom shes close are duly reported.

Perhaps her devotion to that calendar springs from a biblical admonition: Teach us to number our days... that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Or maybe its a by-product of coming up in the Great Depressionmakes her treasure the simple blessings of each day and want to record them. After all, tomorrow may not be so generous.

Hence her thriftiness, which she wears like a good polyester double-knit pants suit. In her house she stockpiles dime-store finds, hides away useful sundry items in bureau drawers or in the dusty nether regions of closets seldom accessed, to await the day when she will need that set of porcelain demitasse cups or remember someone else who might. She even saves food. In the large upright Frigidaire freezer that sits on the back porch abide morsels of something from a 1994 church social, along with long-forgotten leftovers from some Reagan-era Thanksgiving dinner, patiently awaiting rediscovery and thaw for a midsummer nights supper. In her cleaning frenzies she finds things she forgot she even had, and her calendar is likely to note the rediscoveries.

The only thing you wont find on her calendar is headline news, current eventswell, not usually anyway. There are rare exceptions, always rendered tersely, incisively, with her own spin on exactly what is most important, most awful, most wondrous, about the event.

I imagine she pondered that last one long after the evening news was oversat there contemplating the meaning of those seven new lives and their six-minute delivery, and the crazy, awful, wonderful world theyd been born into. I imagine her playing that story over and over in her head along with the other events of the day, like she does most daysscanning for God in lifes details and, more often than not, finding Him.

Year after year the ritual is the same, for the very reason that each day, each person, each activity, to her is not the same. So pen in hand, she numbers her days, marveling at the wonder of her existence, and finding joy in the view from her window, the company of family and friends, and the occasional rediscovery of forgotten dime-store treasures.

IN the South, its a well-known but unwritten rule that you can say anything you want to about another person as long as you... bless their heart.

Im not certain of the exact origins, but Id guess the earliest bless your heart was uttered in a semireligious context, probably by some parishioner over Sunday lunch to skewer a participant in the morning church service, as in What that preacher lacks in substance he sure makes up for in volume, bless his heart or Bless her heart, if that organist hit one wrong note this morning she musta hit a hundred. And so the practice has evolved.

There are basically two levels of heart blessing.

A level one bless your heart is a sympathetic colloquialismone of those definition-defying, uniquely Southern ones. Were not sure exactly what it means, but it sounds sympathetic and were sincere when we say it. In fact, its exactly what we say when... well, when theres nothing else to say. Its how we commiserate. We reserve bless your hearts for those whom we perceive to be aggrieved, powerless, treated unfairly, violated, infringed upon, or generally inconvenienced in some way.

Couldnt find a parking space? Bless your heart.

IRS send you an audit letter? Bless your heart.

Wife run off on you? Bless your heart.

Youre the mother of three or more children under age five? Bless your heartand heaven help you.

Theres also the bless your heart reserved for babies, generally for fussy or homely-looking ones, always uttered in baby talk: Bwess its widdle heart...

Thats a level one. Now, a level two bless your heart is something else entirely. In this more insidiousand interestingform, its the preferred way of pointing out another persons inadequacies, of mentioning what otherwise would be unmentionable in polite conversation. Its softer, more palatable, than a direct insult. Throw in a bless your heart uttered with the appropriate sympathetic tone, and a verbal kick in the pants is transformed into a reassuring pat on the arm.

Bless your heart, Billie Sue, you put dark meat in your chicken salad, or Arlenes hair may be blond, bless her heart, but her roots arent, or Poor thing got knocked up at the prom, bless er heart. Patronizing, yesbut its always polite.

In the South, weve raised this second variety of heart blessing to an art form. Wielded correctly, its a poison cherry dipped in the rich chocolate of genteel Southern manners; a condescending confection sprinkled with saccharin and sympathy; zinger masquerading as bon mot.

A level two bless your heart conveys at least a trace of real sympathy; it appears to be concerned while slyly drawing attention to someone elses flaws. Its the weapon of choice for taking a potshot at an adversary, because it can be done so darn nicelysort of like complimenting a friend on her dress, then asking if she made it herself.

This kind of heart blessing is most effective in pointing out perceived inadequacies in someone elses intelligence or skill or personal tastes. For instance, Bless her heart, Kathie Lee didnt know those clothes were made by nine-year-old Honduran children.