Shellie Rushing Tomlinson - Suck Your Stomach in and Put Some Color On!: What Southern Mamas Tell Their Daughters That the Rest of YAll Should Know Too

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Heartfelt thanks to everyone who has played a part in seeing Suck Your Stomach In and Put Some Color On published. To my husband, Phil, who loves me despite the fact that I can remember the words to an age-old tune about a woman whose husband thinks hes a chicken, but I cant seem to remember to buy milk when I go to the store forwhat elsemilk. To Papa, Mama, Cyndie, Rhonda, Jessica, Patrick, Phillip, and Carey for being graceful when I tell more than I should, more often than you prefer. To my extended family and friends who know Im always looking for material and talk to me anyway. To Rhonda Perry for all of the the da, da, das. To my agent, Michael Psaltis, for taking an interest in my ramblings and beating the drum for me. To my editor, Denise Silvestro, for seeing something in the proposal and for walking this newbie through the publishing process with kindness and respect. To Mike Blakeney and John Frantom for helping me get All Things Southern to the radio and TV each week. To the radio stations who carry my segments. To Ed Murphy and KNOE TV8 for bringing me into the family. To Kathy Spurlock for inviting me to join the News-Star fold. To all the porchers who listen, watch, or read All Things Southern and to the fine Southern Mamas who contributed their witty and wise words to this project. I only wish I could have included every letter and e-mail I collected. Many worthy submissions fell prey to space constraints. All of you are helping me follow my dreams and I love you for it, but my greatest passion and gratitude is reserved for my Lord and Savior. Thank you, Jesus.

My mothers teenage marriage ended badly. Forty years later her second one continues to thrive. When Mamas prince and my papathe only daddy Ive ever knownbrought us to live on his farm in northeast Louisiana, she was a young twenty-two-year-old with three little girls: Cynthia Darlene, Rhonda Arlene, and Shellie Charlene (thats me)ages five, three, and two.

You did see those middle names, didnt you? That was before people fell for the whole natural childbirth thing. Back then, heavy meds and semiconscious deliveries were all the rage. I blame the drugs for the whole Darlene, Arlene, and Charlene thing. Either that, or Mama was hoping wed become a famous country music act like the Mandrell Sisters. Unfortunately, my sisters were one singing sibling short of a trio (thatd be me, again). Come to think of it, Barbara and Louise were also one sis short on harmony, and her name rhymes with ours! Sorry, Irlene, but that has got to be a sign. Im not sure what it means, but give me some time and Ill get back to you. We Southerners pride ourselves on being able to tie everything to a sign.

I dont know that for certainthe part about Irlene not being able to singthats just what my sisters used to say to harass me back when the highlight of our Saturday nights in the country was watching Barbara Mandrell and the Mandrell Sisters.

See, Shellie! one of them would say. Barbara and Louise both do solos, but you dont see em giving Irlene one. They just flash the camera to her banging on the drums every now and again.

I said it then and Ill say it now: whatever! I loved Irlene. She seemed so happy just to be a part of it all, much as I wouldve enjoyed being a part of our family sing-alongs around the piano, but noeveryone always seemed to tire of singing about the time Id join in. Coincidence? I think not. Id like my family to know that I have managed to survive without any emotional scars from those painful experiences. Sometimes I go for months without even thinking about it.

It must have been quite an adjustment for Mama to leave her parents, siblings, and friends in the busy city of Natchez, Mississippi, and move to the end of a dirt road in rural Louisiana. It would be years before wed get a phone at our little house back on Bull Run, and Mamas long-awaited mail from her family in Mississippi was delivered to her mother-in-laws house a few miles closer to the highway.

My sisters and I were intrigued by our new papas mother, Ola Mae Rushing. Grandma Rushing was a unique individual whod led a very interesting life. Grandma didnt have much formal education to speak of but she was sharpsharp as a tack folks said. Grandma was pleased when I learned to read, but when I fell head over heels in love with the magic of words, a bond formed between the two of us unlike anything the rest of the family shared. Nothing pleased her more than finding me reading a book, and I mustve made her plenty happy because I read em as fast as I could get em checked out of the bookmobile that lumbered down our country roads once a month.

My parents the day Papa married us.

I was just a little thing when Grandma surprised me with a very special gift. Ill never forget opening up the box that held a brand-new typewriter and hearing her tell me to write down my own words. In the ensuing months and years, Grandma eagerly read every word I pecked out with my two skinny forefingers. Grandma Rushing went to her grave at ninety-four, still believing Id be a famous writer. Our dreamhers and mineremains unrealized, but its okay. Her gift to me was her belief in me. I wish every child could be given such a priceless treasure.

My sisters and I met Grandma Rushing in her twilight years, long after shed arrived in the Louisiana Delta as a newlywed from the hills of Kentucky to set up housekeeping in a tent with dirt floors. Some of her ways were different, in a Grandma, why do you leave your gum on the bedpost at night and chew it again the next morning? sort of way.

Grandma Rushing birthed ten kids of her own and raised another couple that werent hers but should have been. She was home alone when she went into labor with her last child. In the stoic spirit of her Southern heritage, Grandma buttoned up her bottom lip and anchored the dress tail of her youngest child (who would one day become my papa) under the heavy bedpost. She smeared honey on his fingers and gave him a feather to keep him busy so she could get busy. Grandma birthed the baby, cut the cord, and returned to her daily chores. This daunting piece of family trivia came back to me years later when I was having my own birthing experience.