Your questions. Landon’s answers. Some GOOD Southern wisdom along the way.
“Why can’t a Southerner just get to the point of a story?”
Down here you don’t get the point first. You get directions to the point. Before you find out how the story even ends, you’ll hear what road she lived on, who her people married into, and where everybody went to church. The casserole gets more airtime than the actual news. Rule one, you never lead with the ending. Rule two, somebody in the story is always named Linda. Every single time. I’ve started keeping count.
“Where’s the best place to hear live music in the South?”
Skip the big rooms. The best music down here happens somewhere small, where you can see the guitar player sweat and nobody’s selling light beer in a souvenir cup. When Thacker Mountain Radio is taping live in Oxford, I am there. Part music, part storytelling, all in one room, and it’s the whole reason I love the South packed into one night. The Thirsty Hippo in Hattiesburg is that kind of spot too, little enough that you catch somebody great before the rest of the world does. Find the small room with the bad parking. That’s where it’s happening.
“What makes a good Southern bookstore?”
Give me the messy independent one. In Mississippi, we’re spoiled. Square Books in Oxford and Lemuria in Jackson are two of the best in the country, the kind where the staff have read everything and hands you something you didn’t know you needed. Square Books has the balcony and the radio show. Lemuria has rooms that go on forever and signed first editions everywhere you look. You go in for one book and leave with four and a dinner recommendation. When you find a store like that, buy something. That’s how it stays open.
“What did the local beauty shop really run in a small town?”
The beauty shop ran the town. Officially it cut hair. Unofficially it was the courthouse, the newspaper, and the prayer chain, all under one dryer. Whatever happened in that county, the women in those chairs knew it first and knew it best. A standing Thursday appointment was a thirty-year information subscription. You didn’t go in just to look good for Sunday. You went to find out who else wasn’t going to look good for Sunday. Original group chat. Better snacks.
“How long do I need to live in the South before I can call myself a Southerner?”
There’s no magic number of years, but there is a test, and you don’t get to grade your own paper. You’re close when you’ve made it through a humid August without complaining too loud, picked a real side on cornbread, and learned to talk a little trash about somebody and land it soft with a “bless ’em.” The weather and the food are part of it, but mostly it comes down to the people. Love them and mean it, and folks around here will let you claim it. We’re glad to have you.
“What exactly is a church casserole?”
It is usually beige. Somewhere in there is a can of cream-of-something soup, and there’s a real good chance it’s wearing a crown of crushed cornflakes. But a church casserole was never really about the food. It shows up on your porch when there’s been a loss, or a baby, or a bad diagnosis, and it’s somebody’s way of saying I don’t have the words but I have a 9 by 13. You’ll see them lined up in the fellowship hall on folding tables with the little crosses on the cloth. And the highest honor is the one that comes back to you with masking tape and a name in Sharpie on the bottom, because that means you’re in the rotation now.
“I’ve been invited to a ‘potluck.’ Is there a code for what to bring?”
There’s a code, and it’s unspoken but ironclad. If you’re new, bring dessert. Nobody in the history of the South has been mad at the person who walked in with banana pudding. Just know that if you bring something that blows everybody away, congratulations, you’ve been voluntold to bring it every single time from here on out. If you’re running short, offer to grab ice or rolls, both count as honest penance. And whatever you do, do not slide a store-bought casserole onto the table and try to call it homemade. We know what the Piggly Wiggly fried chicken looks like, and we know exactly what it tastes like.
Can’t get enough of Landon? Neither can we.
Click here to keep up with his travels, tour, and everything in between.
