I was having a conversation the other day with a friend about the worst Christmas gifts we ever received. It was quite entertaining. After our discussion, I started thinking about the topic more and more. The first memory I have of a bad Christmas present was not actually one I received, but one that my older brother was given. I must have been around three years old at the time. In fact, I think the only other memories I have from three years old are when we moved to a rental house before finding my childhood home and chasing fireflies in the back yard, but I do distinctly remember this one.

When Southerners are expecting a child, many of the first questions that come to mind are related to what said child will be named. Now, keep in mind, there is a difference in what the child may be named and what the child may be called, but regardless, here are some examples of the top questions that usually come up:

My husband was lucky enough to grow up on a farm, on the edge of the heart of Nashville, Tennessee. He had around twenty four acres to explore during his childhood, a river that backed up to the land and allowed him to fish on those lazy summer days, and a plethora of farm animals to keep him company. Now, with all that land comes a lot of upkeep. As my father in law worked with a business that was open seven days a week/ twenty- four hours a day, he did not have the luxury of doing the upkeep himself. Through the years, he and his wife hired a cast of characters to outsource the work needed to keep up the place.

It was early September, sometime around the mid-2000s. I had ventured up further north than I ever had been, to New York City, for a visit with my dear college friend, Abby. She had recently moved to be with her then boyfriend, now husband, as he started his illustrious professional football career. I was in my mid-twenties and was thrilled to be going to the bustling city for the first time in my life- to see all the things I had only been able to look at through my television and in magazines.

It was late fall in 2007. I had returned to my college town of Oxford, Mississippi, to attend an engagement party for two dear friends. It was going to be the party of all engagement parties, as the couple had been very popular and well known throughout their college career, and other than sporting events, there wasn’t that much to do in the tiny town at that time.

A few years ago, I enjoyed a very interesting Thanksgiving dinner at my in-law’s lovely home in Nashville, Tennessee. Since my husband is such the avid outdoorsman, we stay around town this time of year so he won’t be far from the hunting camp. My in-laws live on a farm, nestled between the Davidson and Williamson county line, in a hundred year old, extremely southern home with a large front porch. They purchased the land back in the eighties for next to nothing, and it is where my now husband grew up. And it is on this farm, where he developed his deep love for animals.

As this particular weekend draws to a close, I find myself thinking of the next weekend to come. For me, and many friends I know, this will include watching the Ole Miss vs. Vanderbilt football game.

This particular match up always brings up memories as I am a Mississippi native but have lived in Nashville for around fifteen years. I think of many fun road trips to the away the games in Tennessee during my college days with friends, my twenty seventh birthday in which the game fell on the exact date and resulted in quite the yard party on Belmont Boulevard in Nashville, how no matter where each team is ranked that year it usually seems to be a good game, and of course, I think of Roy Lee “Chucky” Mullins.

Growing up, I remember my mother telling me how she knew she would never marry a hunter because her own father and two brothers were always gone during prime hunting season, as if I automatically knew when this was. “They were always off hunting something,” she would say. And as my mother tends to follow through on her word, she married a non-hunter.